For I Have Been Made New
by Scribe34
Summary: She had always loved him, even unconsciously, even when he was horrible, even when she didn't deserve him. He hadn't known, but once he did, nothing could stop him from loving her back. *Please review, I appreciate your input*
1. Prologue: A Choice

Prologue: A Choice

"Greengrass, Astoria!"

There was a small sea of shoulders before her; she could see them, most of them on level with her eyes. She had always been tiny; Daphne was taller and curvier, with golden-brown hair and brilliant hazel-green eyes and sun-kissed skin. She was tiny and pale and insignificant.

She made her way through the gaggle of first-years and climbed up onto the stool, trying not to notice that a few people were laughing at her because her legs swung without hitting the floor. The tall, beaky-nosed old witch- McGonagall was her name- placed the raggedy Sorting Hat on her head.

"Story Greengrass_," _mused a voice in her head. Story had to stop herself from suddenly clenching the sides of the stool, although she did stop swinging her legs. "Surprised, are you? I read your mind, my dear, I know what you call yourself_._"

_Well, where do I belong?_ she asked the hat. _Where am I supposed to be?_

"I approve of your common sense," said the Hat. "You're very unusual, Story- pureblood and noble, all the qualities of the perfect Slytherin girl, and yet you have far deeper things in you. Not loud, but deep."

_Are you normally this poetic? Because frankly I would just like to go to wherever I'm meant to sit. I'm quite hungry._

"Yes, yes, my dear. All in due time. You're quite ferociously intelligent, you know," said the Hat, and if it weren't an inanimate object she would have sworn it seemed... _approving_. "And I do approve of you, Story Greengrass. I can see everything you are, and as little as you choose to believe it, you have greatness within you."

_Does that mean I'm going to Gryffindor, then? I would be miserable there._

"Merlin, no. You would be abjectly unhappy. And Hufflepuff isn't even in the mix. No, it's down to Ravenclaw or Slytherin. And when it comes so very, very close, like it does with you, I let you choose."

_Me? But you're the Hat. Shouldn't you be choosing?_

"Sometimes it's important to let you choose who you want to be," said the Hat, and there was something inscrutably sad in its voice. "If you don't get some freedom, the things chosen for you will make the rest of your life a misery."

_Who has that happened to, then?_

"You only get your own Story," said the Hat wickedly.

_That was a pathetic pun. I'm disappointed._

"Best I could do on such short notice." The Hat chuckled softly.

_I'm arguing with a hat, Merlin bless it. Please just pick._

"I will not. Choose where you're going to be happy.

She had had her eyes closed, under the brim of the hat, and now she opened them slightly- not enough for anyone to tell she had opened them, but enough that she could see.

At Ravenclaw, directly before her, there were blue and bronze hangings. She could see intelligent faces, most of them paying attention, sharp and alert. She saw a girl with wispy, dirty-blonde hair with her wand stuck behind one ear; a dark, swarthy-yet-pretty Indian girl, a Chinese girl with a shy smile, three boys huddled together, a book in one of their laps. She hid a smile herself.

"Do you want to go there?" the Hat asked her. "It's becoming a bit of a wait- you've almost taken the longest turn for decision in the history of Sorting. And in case you didn't know, that's a lot of kids."

Story turned to look at the Slytherin table. Green and silver- familiarity, because she had seen those hangings at home, in her parents' room, in Daphne's room, at Malfoy Manor when her parents occasionally visited. She caught sight of Pansy Parkinson, Tracey Davis, and Scarlett Lympsham. Across from them were Draco Malfoy, Vince Crabbe, and Greg Goyle, down the row she recognized Theo Nott, Adrian Pucey, Marc Flint- all people she had heard of, seen pictures of, met at the various "Slytherin" parties at Malfoy Manor that had occurred over the two summers since Daphne had started school. And then, of course, there was Daphne, staring at her, eyes narrowed in suspicion of _will-my-sister-go-to-another-House?_

Her eyes wandered back to Draco Malfoy, as was easy to do. He was striking- the bright-blonde hair, the pale face. He looked bored, now, but he glanced her way casually, probably wondering, like everyone else, what was taking so long.

"You've long broken the record, you know," said the Hat pointedly. "A minute fifteen was the record, you've been here a minute thirty-seven-"

_I know._ And like that, she made her choice.

"SLYTHERIN!" roared the Hat, for all the hall to hear.

The Hat was lifted, and she glanced back briefly and smiled politely at Professor McGonagall before walking to the green-and-silver-hung table, slipping into a place next to her sister.

"That took a while," said Daphne in a low voice, as a red-headed girl Story had met on the train sat on the stool next. She was sorted promptly into Hufflepuff. Story put the girl from her mind- Ravenclaw friends were acceptable, but Hufflepuff and Gryffindor friends were not.

"Philosophical discussion," said Story, almost inaudibly; she had learned that if she wanted Daphne to leave her alone, all she had to do was speak quietly and use large words.

Daphne snorted. "Sure took a while." She turned away.

"Congrats, Astoria," said a voice from across the table; Theo Nott nodded coolly to her, his dark-green eyes regarding her without emotion. She knew Theo pretty well; the Notts and the Greengrasses both lived in Oxford, and Theo was in Daphne's year. They were friends. He had never paid much attention to Story before, beyond a nod or a perfunctory greeting. He was not a handsome boy, and Story had never much liked him.

Being a Slytherin, especially one as dubiously placed as she- a minute and forty seconds, she guessed, on the stool- meant that you had to be somewhat diplomatic, in your own House, anyway. She nodded to Theo. "Thank you."

He nodded back, those dark-green eyes still cold and inscrutable. She looked away, down the table. Pansy, Tracey, and Scarlett sat on her sister's other side. She hated Pansy- very secretly, however. Pansy was unpleasant to look at or talk to, even if she always had the best gossip. Tracey was all right. And there was something about Scarlett that Story knew she did not like- but Scarlett was a very nice, very polite person. Just like Story herself. Pansy and Daphne were dramatic, wear-it-out-on-your-sleeve types. Scarlett was more reserved. All four of the older girls smiled at her. Vince and Greg nodded to her- she didn't expect much more than that, because they barely had enough brain cells to nod and think at the same time. Draco ignored her completely, his wand out, playing with it. He prodded Pansy's plate with it; it rose into the air about an inch, then returned to the table silently. He had done it without speaking- Story knew that most kids under sixth year couldn't do nonverbal spells. Draco Malfoy was talented, yes- but not terribly nice.

And before her musings were even done, food had appeared from nowhere on the sparkling golden serving plates, and everyone was chattering as they dished up food. Vince and Greg ate like starving whales, naturally, contributing to the conversation by laughing when Draco said anything particularly witty. The job of the girls was to tease Draco and laugh at his jokes as well. And Draco's job was to say things that were sort of funny or rather rude, and look pleased with himself when all of them laughed.

Boring. Story sighed inwardly, though her face gave nothing away. She had learned early to keep her face from betraying what she thought.

"Did the Hat consider you for Ravenclaw, too?" asked Theo blandly.

She jumped. She had forgotten he was there.

"Yes, it did," she said reflectively. "I'm quite glad I came here, though."

"I was considered," said Theo, still bland, "but I was sent here, naturally." He took a bite of garlic potatoes. "

_Hmmm,_ thought Story. _Then Theodore hadn't chosen to come here, like I did._ The thought was slightly disconcerting. She shook her head.

"Hey, look, Potter's back!" snickered Draco.

She spared a glance over at the Gryffindor table, but it didn't matter much to her. It was just so that she didn't have to explain that head shake to Theo Nott.

"And Granger was with him," said Pansy viciously. "God, she has got to be the ugliest Mudblood ever."

_Being pureblooded doesn't make __you__ particularly beautiful,_ thought Story, but she kept that thought deep down in the corners of her mind. If her sister and her friends knew about Story's opinions on blood status- the whole thing was ridiculous, frankly, and if wizards insisted on pureblood marriages they would all be dead in a few years- she would be ostracized, never allowed to have a friend. Slytherins were allowed to have differing bloodlines- Tracey was three-quarters pureblood, and Scarlett only a half-blood- but opinions were generally meant to be the same. If they weren't, then life in the dorms was usually much more unpleasant for you.

She wondered if maybe she should have gone to Ravenclaw after all. It was too late, anyway.


	2. Chapter 1: Talented

Chapter One: Talented

Story took a deep breath, then knocked on the tall, narrow door in the common room. The nameplate read "Severus Snape" in a thin, silky script. His office was here, but it also had a connecting door out to the corridor, for the non-Slytherin students. She waited quietly.

"Come in," said her Head of House, opening the door. "Ah, Miss Greengrass. Have a seat."

Professor Snape closed the door behind her. Story sat in the stark wooden chair in front of the mahogany desk. The desk didn't match any of the other furniture in the office; she wondered why he had chosen it.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, Astoria?" inquired Professor Snape.

She swallowed. "I was reading over some of my assignments, Professor. I have a lot of long essays coming up- all the teachers assign them in November, I think. And I was wondering if I could have a note to access the Restricted Section to look at a few of the Potions, Charms, Transfiguration, Defense Against the Dark Arts, and Herbology books." She slid a piece of parchment across the table to her Head of House. She had copied the titles of the books from the library catalogues; Madam Pince had glared at her the whole time. Story knew she needed these books, as the topics she was interested in writing on and had already researched contained references to the books.

Professor Snape studied the list, his eyebrows rising as he read through the titles of the books. "Surely I haven't assigned you anything this difficult? And it's only the beginning of October, Astoria- you don't have to start so soon."

"It's something to do," she answered softly, not looking at him. "And I know that your assignment isn't anything so difficult as what requires the books I'd like to use, but I found an intriguing question on the use of cinnamon in restorative draughts, and I wanted to research that further. I was hoping that my essay could examine that idea, advantages and disadvantages."

"Cinnamon is a newer ingredient in the Potions world," said Professor Snape. She could feel his eyes on her face, although she didn't- couldn't look at him. She had problems looking at people's faces when she was speaking to them. "I haven't assigned you anything with cinnamon in it."

"I was reading through the latest issue of _The Practical Potioneer,_" said Story. "I think the use of cinnamon in restorative draughts has generally been found to have a better effect on patients who take the potion for mental restoration rather than physical restoration, and I wanted to compare the two types of potions."

There was a long pause, and then Professor Snape said calmly, "If I didn't know better, I would ask whether you had gotten that idea from Hermione Granger."

Story was taken aback. Hermione Granger? She had seen the older girl in the hall maybe once- Pansy and Daphne liked to make fun of her, but Story rather secretly admired her. She was smart and not afraid to show it- unlike herself.

"But I don't think she even knows of your existence, so we'll disregard that idea. Most of my Potions students don't come to me with research questions until after they take their O.W.L.s," said Professor Snape. "And from the Defense Against the Dark Arts books-"

"Professor Lupin has been going over basic defense strategies with us, as we're only first-years, but I've had those mastered for weeks, and he approved me to research cursed objects and the effects they can have if used wrongly, though he didn't approve the books I wanted to use," said Story quietly.

Professor Snape made a humming noise in the back of his throat that indicated approval, then said, "Transfiguration?"

"The controversial opinion being debated in _Transfiguration Today_ on the classification of Color-Change Charms, whether they are misnamed as Charms and really ought to be called Spells, because they're learned in the Transfiguration curriculum rather than the Charms curriculum, and also whether or not Invisibility Spells and Disillusionment Charms fall under the category of Color-Change Spells.

He nodded once more. "Charms?"

"The advantages and disadvantages of a Blasting Curse over an Impediment Jinx. Both have the same effect, but the Blasting Curse is achieved with fire versus the Impediment Jinx, the effects of which are achieved through air pressure," she said promptly, and before she could ask, she added, "And I was interested in researching poisonous plants for Herbology, and covering the most poisonous and how it is they are used in St. Mungo's and other Wizarding hospitals as cures rather than drugs."

There was a long pause, and then Professor Snape said thoughtfully, "Other than the sterling quality of the potions you prepare in class and the good marks I get from your other teachers, Astoria, there seems to be no indication that you are anything but normal. Do you hide your brilliance on purpose?"

His tone was caustic, but Story knew he didn't mean to be cruel. Professor Snape had said ruder things to Daphne, and she had just laughed it off.

"Yes," she answered simply, glancing up once into the shadowy eyes and then back down at the mahogany desk.

"Why?" he said, plainly confused.

Story hesitated. She couldn't tell him the real reason, of course- that Daphne and her friends disdained intelligence, and that as detached from them as she knew herself to be, she still sought their approval. Instead, a few details cobbled themselves together in her mind, and she said, allowing a forlorn tone to creep into her voice, "Boys don't like smart girls." She knew that this answer would both frustrate and embarrass Professor Snape.

He paused for a moment, and she risked a glance up at him. He didn't look amused or embarrassed; instead there was an expression of lostness on his face, of being somewhere in another world. Then, he said quietly, "You are wrong, Astoria- so very, very wrong- but for now, that is as good a reason as any. You're only eleven. Don't let your _sister_ get to you." He said the word sister in a scathing tone- but she knew somehow that it was not directed at Daphne. It was meant for some other sister, of some other time or place. He looked very sad, Professor Snape. Heartbroken, even.

But he roused himself enough to place his thin, silky signature at the bottom of the parchment in a dark-green ink. "You place circles over your I's," he noted, seemingly casually.

"Yes," said Story, surprised. He didn't make any further comment on it, just slid the parchment back over the desk.

"There you are, Miss Greengrass. I don't think that Madam Pince will give you a problem with this. And thank you."

"For what?" said Story, confused again.

"For your modesty," said Professor Snape. The cynical tone was back in his voice, and she felt that it wasn't as honest as his lostness was. "Most girls with your sort of brains would no doubt have rubbed it insufferably onto everyone else."

Story nodded, took her parchment, and left the office. She took it with her to the library, showed the noted to Madam Pince, collected the stack of heavy books the older witch brought her, and returned to her dormitory to study.


	3. Chapter 2: Rescued

Chapter Two: Rescued

"Torrrrieeeee," said Daphne, settling down next to her at the Slytherin table.

Story looked up. Her sister had always called her Torrie, for some reason she couldn't fathom. Nobody knew that she called herself Story. She wrote Astoria on all of her papers and hated it, the snobbish, fashionable name, like the American purebloods they were distantly related to. She hated Torrie even worse.

"Hey, Daph," she said, closing her Charms textbook. It was late December and they were staying over the Christmas holidays for the Yule Ball. Daphne was going with an older boy- she had to think before she remembered it was Graham Montague, the Chaser. And naturally it didn't matter that Montague was their second cousin- Daphne would have to go with a pureblood. Story resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

"Have you found a date for the ball yet?" said Daphne.

"No," said Story patiently. "I'm a second-year, Daph. I'm not going unless someone asks me, and I'm only staying over Christmas so I can help you and Tracey and Scarlett and Pansy with your hair before you go."

"Well, don't snap at me," said Daphne, divining correctly that Story was annoyed at her. "The thing is, Torrie, is that Theo doesn't have a date, and he was going to ask you but he has a detention right now with McGonagall, all the boys do. So he asked me to ask for him."

Story raised one eyebrow. "And why can't he just ask me himself when he gets back from his detention?"

"Because he has homework," said Daphne. "God, you're going to be impossible, aren't you?"

"Who are the others going with?" said Story, hoping to change the subject.

"Well, Pansy's going with Draco, _of course_, and I'm rather jealous because he'll look absolutely dreamy in dress robes- but then, I have a date-" Story again repressed the urge to roll her eyes at her sister's affected giggle. "-and Graham is really quite handsome, too, so I'm certainly not complaining." Story privately thought that Graham looked like a castrated puppy. "And Scarlie's going with Blaise- just as friends, because Blaise's girl Hestia- you do know Hestia Carrow?- she has to go home for the hols. And Tracey's going with Jack Urquhart, and he's only a third-year but he's tall enough to take Tracey. She has the most divine robes- primrose silk, from Paris.."

"That's the other reason I can't go to the Yule Ball," said Story. "I don't have dress robes."

"Yes, you do, Torrie, I have an old set you can use."

"Please tell me they aren't pink."

"They're not pink, they're a nice shade of ashes-of-roses-"

"That's pink."

"Ashes-of-roses is not pink," snapped Daphne. "It's a combination of pink and grey."

"Would you mind terribly if I Color-Changed them to just grey?" said Story.

Daphne sighed loudly and dramatically. "God, Story. You're a second-year and you get to go to the Yule Ball. And at least the robes aren't maroon, like Ron Weasley's. Be grateful."

She wanted to punch Daphne- to break her nose, at that very moment, but then Theo appeared, looking first at Story and then at Daphne, with a question in his eyes.

"Of course she'll go with you," said Daphne promptly, before Story could say anything. "She's a sweetheart, aren't you, Torrie?"

"As long as I'm not a dog," said Story coldly, and she stood up and left the Great Hall, leaving Daphne and Theo behind her.

She was barely five steps out of the room before Daphne was following her, shrieking, "Astoria Christabel Greengrass! What the hell was that?" A few of the Slytherins and the Durmstrang students stared, people who recognized them from meals and classes.

Story whirled around. "I can answer for myself, Daphne! You don't have to do all the talking for me. I am not a baby!"

"Nobody ever said you-"

"_'_Of_ course_ she'll go with you, she's such a _sweetheart_, aren't you, _Torrie_? Sit up! Roll over! I am not your pet! I can make my own choices!" She knew that her imitation of her sister sounded exactly like Daphne- she had an uncanny knack for mimicry. She could make herself sound like Daphne, an easy one, or like Professor McGonagall's Scottish brogue, or like Pansy's whiny, high-pitched voice.

"Well, do you want to go, or not?" said Daphne testily.

"I'll go," said Story coldly. "But if Theo thinks he's getting anywhere with me, he's quite mistaken. I'm not going to whore for him because he was nice enough to take me to the Yule Ball. Especially not if he can't even do his own asking."

She whirled around again, knowing she would eventually regret her words, regret fighting with her sister in the middle of the hallway. She hadn't known that she would regret it right then- Theo, Draco, Vince, Greg, and Blaise all stood there, staring at the dramatic exchange. She stormed past the five of them, not making eye contact with any of them. She felt a hand brush hers and wasn't sure if it belonged to Draco or Theo.

The next few days passed quickly; she Color-Changed the ashes-of-roses dress robes to grey, albeit a pale, shimmery grey that could almost-but-not-quite be called silver. Daphne relented and allowed the change.

She went up to Daphne's dormitories on the night of the ball to help them get ready. Her sister's robes were a lime-green, almost electric; Pansy's were pink and frilly, of course, and Tracey had the Parisian silk primrose, as Daphne had said. Scarlett was perhaps the most striking of all of them; she wore red, but not cheerful Gryffindor red, a deep, velvety Bordeaux red that was cut brilliantly to display her figure.

She helped with all of their hair; Pansy's hair was too short for an updo, cut to her shoulders, but Story helped curl it and pin it to the side. Daphne's and Scarlett's hair was put up; Tracey wore hers down but perfectly straightened. At its full length, with no curls, it was nearly four feet, reaching her knees. While they were all working on makeup, Story did her own hair, then brought out the camera that she had enchanted to take moving pictures and offered her services as a photographer. The other girls complied, giggling, and she snapped several pictures of them. Overall, she thought, Daphne was the prettiest. All of them were pretty- except for Pansy, but Story knew that Pansy's unpleasantness was the only thing that made her ugly in Story's eyes. Pansy was curvy and had a decent face- except for the whole squashed-pug look, and more importantly to the boys, she was an easy lay. Story had no doubt of what would happen if she ever mentioned this to anybody, but she knew that Pansy wasn't a virgin, and she knew that Blaise wasn't, either, and that it had occurred on the same occasion.

She put her camera away and they went down to the common room to meet their dates. Theo wore navy blue robes- but he was as tall and cold and bland as he ever was. Story didn't mind him much, though. He was only a dance partner, only a one-time date. He was her opportunity at going to the Yule Ball- maybe her only opportunity, as the previous Triwizard Tournaments tended to be put off by the deaths and the massive amounts of organization they required.

He offered his arm rather graciously to her; she took it, and watched the others. Daphne simpered as Graham took her arm; Scarlett and Blaise fell into conversation, not touching each other- although Story rather suspected that Scarlett was planning to get Blaise tipsy enough to get to at least second base, Hestia Carrow or no Hestia Carrow. Draco looked bored, although he told Pansy she looked pretty. Jack Urquhart goggled at Tracey in awe, and Story was happy for her- she deserved nice things to happen to her.

"You- erm, you look nice," said Theo, recalling her attention.

"Thank you," said Story politely; then, feeling as though it would be rude not to reciprocate, added, "You look nice as well."

He nodded his thanks- Theo wasn't exactly verbose- and they made their way through the common room, Draco thrusting people aside with his reputation alone. A lot of the Durmstrang students, with whom they had made friends due to eating together and a common sense of commonsensibility, were taking Slytherin students as dates. Story caught the eye of one of Karkaroff's scapegoats, the boy named Poliakoff- his mouth dropped open as he looked at her, and Story instantly looked away, suddenly very glad that Theo was her date for the Yule Ball.

"Would you rather have taken an older girl?" she asked him directly.

He seemed taken aback. "I like you, Story. I had planned on asking you anyway."

"Oh. Well, thank you."

"You're quite welcome."

At least it wasn't embarrassing to talk to Theo about those sorts of things.

They stood outside the Great Hall, students from all the Houses mixing. She glanced around interestedly; the champions were meant to go in first. She caught sight of the Weasley girl, next to Neville Longbottom, Draco's favorite target for humiliation. She looked miserable- Story thought Harry Potter must have rejected her. But who was he going with?

Oh, there he was, with a beaming Parvati Patil on his arm. He looked dashing enough, but rather taken aback, in his green robes. Story didn't think Harry Potter very handsome- she was one of the few. She had even heard Daphne and Tracey discussing it very quietly, when Pansy and Scarlett couldn't hear. And there was Ron Weasley following him- but at a distance, because Ron wasn't a school champion- with Parvati's sister Padma. Story liked Padma, from her distant point of observation of all the other students in the school.

Harry and Parvati stood with Cedric Diggory- and Cho Chang, of course, Story had heard they were dating. And there was the Beauxbatons girl with Roger Davies- silly idiot couldn't keep his mouth shut. Where was Krum? Story liked Krum. He had spoken to her a few times in the library, before all of his stalker-followers found him there. He had confided to her that he had an interest in Hermione Granger, but he was finding it difficult to ask her to the ball. Story had told him to just ask, for heaven's sake, because very few girls in their right mind would turn down Viktor Krum, especially after the publicity at the Quidditch World Cup.

And clearly he had, because floating downstairs next to him was Hermione Granger. Story knew that she herself was not terribly ugly, though by comparison to her sister she was. Daphne was pretty, and Scarlett was pretty, and almost all of the girls here were pretty- except maybe Pansy. Cho was pretty, and Parvati was pretty, and Fleur Delacour with her one-quarter-veela blood was very pretty indeed- but Hermione Granger was outshining everyone tonight. Story felt something of a triumph in her mind- she resented being compared to Hermione Granger by her teachers, but she admired Hermione's intellect, and knew that Pansy's criticisms of the other girl were completely unjustified. Confidence in one's own intelligence was not the same as being a know-it-all.

She glanced around at her sister's friends. Pansy was staring at Hermione, jaw open and furious, but unable to say anything, because Hermione was with Krum and everyone knew that if Krum heard anything against his date he could lay them out flat with a hex in an instant. Theo was staring at Hermione, too, and Story thought she heard him murmur "smart _and_ hot, who would have thought?" And Draco's reaction was by far the best- his mouth, like Pansy's, had fallen open and was stuck like that. Story wanted to laugh at him, wanted to laugh at all of the people who were wondering what Hermione Granger had done to herself, how on earth had she gotten that ridiculously good-looking. But she didn't, because it would have broken the silence and she felt that it was the sort of moment that should pass her over. She was not a player in the game. She was an observer.

Everyone went in, and after they ate, the dancing began. Theo took her out for an obligatory dance, and then, as the boys had apparently agreed, they danced with each other's dates, probably so that Vince and Greg wouldn't feel left out. They were dateless, and Story knew this was because they were ugly. She also knew that her sister and her friends had scrambled for dates so that they wouldn't have to go with Vince or Greg. But they all danced with each of them once, and then Vince and Greg sat at a table with Millie Bulstrode and ate copious amounts of Christmas goose and roast potatoes.

Blaise took her out for a spin, and he was a very good dancer. He complimented her dress robes- whispering, of course, that they were a season old, but they were the sort of classical style of dress robes that you could get away with wearing them forever without looking frumpy. Story thanked him for the advice and told him that he looked nice as well. Blaise was a model, over the summer. He had told her once that she had the face for modeling, and if she got much taller she would have the body for it as well.

Graham took her out as well, but only because Daphne told him to. Story got him to talk about Quidditch, which cheered him up and allowed her to not pay attention and just nod and smile at the right parts. Jack only wanted to dance with Tracey, and Story didn't push it, because Jack and Tracey had at some point during the evening become Jack-and-Tracey, a couple, a thing.

She hadn't expected Draco to ask her, but he languidly offered, while Pansy and Theo took a dance. She accepted. He led her out to the floor.

"How've you been this year, Torrie?" he asked.

Story flinched. "I prefer Astoria," she told him, but hearing how cold that sounded added, "And I've been doing all right, how about you?"

Story Greengrass's rule number one of conversation with boys: Make the boy talk about himself, and then you don't have to do any work. It worked with Vince and Greg and Blaise and Graham and probably Jack as well.

"I've been well," he said, and his eyes flickered over to Pansy and Theo, who were chatting amicably but who were also watching them sharply. "Are you and Theo... official?"

Story frowned. "No," she said. "Where on earth did you get that idea?"

"Daph and Pansy said you would probably start dating-"

Story let out a most unladylike snort. "Right," she said derisively. "I make it a point not to do everything that Pansy and Daph think should happen. Especially not as regards Theo. I like Theo. He's a very nice person and will make some girl a lovely boyfriend. That girl will not be me."

"Why not?" said Draco. He seemed genuinely interested. This was unusual- Draco cared about few people other than himself.

"Because Theo can't talk, and I don't like talking all that much," said Story. "We would be bored of each other in no time at all."

He shrugged, his face surprised. "Well, dating isn't all talking, you know. Sometimes it's... other things."

"I'm twelve," said Story, "and while we both know that twelve is plenty old enough to do _other things_, I have no desire to do those _other things_ with Theo."

"That's fair," he agreed.

"Are you and Pansy dating?" she asked him, quickly casting about for a change of topic.

His face darkened a little bit. "She'd like to," he said thoughtfully, "and I think it would be pleasant, at least- but it's not something that is really on the forefront of my mind." He sounded wistful, and briefly Story wondered what was on the forefront of his mind to distract him from Pansy Parkinson, easiest lay in Hogwarts.

"Thank you for the dance," she told him, as the song ended and Pansy and Theo walked towards them to change partners.

"You're welcome, Astoria," he answered, taking Pansy by the arm.

Theo took her arm again. "You and Draco seem friendly," he observed.

"He's a nice enough boy," said Story, using the indifferent tone that she knew would tell Theo that she was not interested in Draco Malfoy beyond friendship.

Theo shrugged, but she could tell he was relieved by this. Oh, God, maybe he did like her. Ew.

"Excuse me," said a voice, heavy with a foreign accent. Story turned to see the Durmstrang boy, Poliakoff. "It vould be my pleasure to dance vith the lady."

Story was taken aback, but she was also eager to get away from Theo for a little bit. "You don't mind, do you, Theo?" she asked, even as she pulled from his arm and took Poliakoff's hand.

Poliakoff wasn't a bad dancer, but his breath smelled like firewhiskey, and she suspected that he had probably been at the punch, and there was no doubt that the Weasley twins or Lee Jordan had spiked the punch bowl with something stronger than butterbeer.

"You are very pretty," complimented Poliakoff. "Vot is your name?"

She felt an extreme unwillingness to tell him her real name. "Iris Norrison." She felt a twinge of wicked humor at this.

"Iris," he repeated. "An iris is an Eenglish flower, is it not? You look like a flower, Iris. A silvery-grey flower."

Oh, dear. She had misjudged. Talking awkwardly about the status of her relationship with Theo, to Theo, was far better than dancing with an awkward, punch-drunk Russian boy who was trying to be romantic. "Thank you," she said cautiously.

"May I kees you, pretty Iris?"

"I would rather you didn't, seeing how the basis of our acquaintance is less than thirty seconds," said Story.

He frowned, clearly a little sluggish.

"We hardly know each other," she clarified.

He laughed. "Ve don't haff to." And then he leaned in, his mouth open.

Story jumped away, nearly tripping over her heels, and tore herself loose from Poliakoff's hands. He protested weakly for a moment. She walked away, angry and annoyed, back to where Theo stood waiting. His expression said "I-told-you-so" all over it, but he could say nothing, as he had never told her so to begin with. But Story knew he was right.

And Poliakoff stumbled after her, of course, "Iris- come back-"

"Leave her alone, you're drunk, you sodding cough," said Theo.

Poliakoff ignored him, still moving towards her.

"_Stupefy_!"

The jet of red light flew from Draco's wand and hit Poliakoff in the chest. He collapsed over backwards.

Everyone stared at Draco. He shrugged. "Idiot smells like alcohol and bloody fur," he said indifferently. "Crabbe, Goyle, drag him out to the hall. Some time away from Astoria is probably what he needs."

Astoria looked at Draco a little bit longer, then away. She didn't notice the narrowed eyes of Theo or the venomous stare of Pansy Parkinson. She didn't notice her sister and Tracey's confusion, or Scarlett's calm observance of everything. She just looked at her hands, looked at the ground, wished she had turned Theo down, wished she had just stayed in the dungeons and read _Moste Potente Potions_. As much as she wished, however, one could not turn back time.


	4. Chapter 3: Ice Queen

Chapter Three: Ice Queen

"I hate the little bitch."

Story kept a straight face and ate her pancakes. She was sitting ten or fifteen seats down the table, a gaggle of first-years separating her sister's friends and herself, but she could hear every word from Pansy's mouth. The boys were elsewhere- Pansy didn't say rude things about Story in front of Draco, not since the Yule Ball. And she hadn't had a reason to before the Yule Ball.

"Pansy, please, she's my sister," protested Daphne, but it was half-hearted. Scarlett said something too quietly for Story to hear.

It had been gradual, drifting away from her sister and her friends, but it had happened. Story's roommates didn't much like her either. Her only friends these days were Daphne, and only when Pansy wasn't around, and Theo, which was more of a burden than a blessing. And then over the summer Daphne had hosted a sleepover for all of the girls- all of them but Millie, who was always left out because everyone found her unpleasant- and Story had come in to play with them and Pansy had made nasty, cutting remarks until Story left. And Story had no idea why, but she figured that it dated back to the Yule Ball, when Draco Malfoy had Stunned Sergei Poliakoff to prevent him from attempting to molest Astoria Greengrass.

"You know what her roommates call her?" said Pansy, still loud enough for Story to hear. "The Ice Queen. It's fitting, she's all pale and mysterious and cold."

"She's not really," said Daphne feebly," you don't know her as well as I do-"

"I don't care! The little freak is after my boyfriend, and I won't have it."

Story got up. Draco and Pansy had made it official after the Yule Ball, which was the part she really didn't understand. Pansy was sure of him. Why did she still hate Story?

She went to the library and studied until it was time for Charms, and then she went to Charms and outperformed every other student there, Slytherin and Ravenclaw alike. Flitwick praised her work on the Cheering Charms- everyone else in the room was in an impossibly good mood, Flitwick included, as a result of her wandwork. She was not in an impossibly good mood, as nobody had managed to cast a successful Cheering Charm on her.

She went back to the library and found Theo there, waiting. He stood there rather awkwardly and Story nodded to him as she settled at her usual corner table and took out her books. He sat down across from her.

"Story," he began.

She looked up, setting down her quill and folding her hands, giving him her full attention. Or the appearance of it, anyway. Her mind was still mentally writing up the Latin history of the incantation for a Cheering Charm.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"Shouldn't you be studying for your O.W.L.s?" she said.

"Yeah, I should, but this is slightly more important," said Theo. "Pansy was saying some less-than-complimentary things about you in the Great Hall, and I wondered if-"

"-I was all right, yes, you mentioned," said Story. "I am perfectly fine, Theo. I don't place any importance on what Pansy Parkinson says or does not say about me."

"There's not much she isn't saying at the moment," he said, his eyes crinkling up in amusement at his own joke. Story wasn't much inclined to laugh at him.

"Really, Theo. I'm quite all right." She picked up her quill and began to write again, ignoring the tall boy across the table from her.

"If you need to talk," he said eventually, "I am here."

"Yes, you've made that quite clear," said Story, and for the first time she allowed a hint of impatience to creep into her voice. Theo would pick up on it, because he usually did.

There was a long pause, and then Theo said, "You know, you aren't helping your case any."

Story was completely annoyed now. She dotted her last few I's ferociously and capped her inkbottle with a slam. "My case?" she snapped. "What case, Theo? Am I supposed to be making a case? We're not in the bloody Wizengamot, and I really don't care what Pansy says. Maybe if she brought up her concerns with me, I could tell her that she has nothing to worry about. Draco was helpful last year at the Yule Ball in helping me to get rid of Poliakoff. He danced with me once and it was in a friendly manner, nothing whatsoever that she should feel threatened by. I don't have a crush on him and he clearly doesn't have a crush on me, since he's been snogging Pansy every five minutes, they're like a couple of bloody rabbits, it's really quite annoying. I'm not making a case. I just don't care and I want to be left alone. By her, by you, by everyone."

He was staring at her, and those dark-green eyes were eerie, as they always were, but they were also... tender. She hadn't expected that.

"Cool head, cool heart," he said in a soft voice. "They call you the Ice Queen for a reason. But wind you up and you're angry enough to burn any man alive."

"Theo," said Story, trying to be patient, "I do not have feelings for you. Maybe that's also why Pansy resents me, because you're interested in me and I am not interested in you and she thinks that maybe because I'm not interested in you I might be interested in Draco. I would rank Blaise before both of you, and I really don't even like _him_. I don't like anyone. I do not want a boyfriend and I do not need a boyfriend."

The eerie tenderness faded, to be replaced by annoyance. "You'll never know until you try it," he pointed out.

Story wanted to beat her head against the table. Instead, she piled her completed Charms homework into her textbook and closed it, then stuffed it in her bag. "Theo, please be serious for a moment."

"I am being serious," said Theo. "You asked me last year at the ball if I wanted to take an older girl over you. I told you I didn't. I still mean that. I like you, Astoria Greengrass, and I want to be your friend."

"You are my friend."

"I want to be everything you'll let me be," said Theo insistently, reaching for her hand. "Just give me a chance, Astoria. Please."

Astoria closed her eyes and sighed. "No, Theo. Just stop it."

She squeezed his hand once, to show him that she was not angry, and then she released him and walked away.


	5. Chapter 4: Uncertainty

Chapter Four: Uncertainty

Story stepped quietly over the ground as she approached the Whomping Willow. There was a tiny flower near the base of it, and she wanted a shot of it to ask Professor Sprout about, but everyone knew what happened when you got too close to the Whomping Willow.

It was quiet and still today, though; windless, nothing bothered the Willow. She examined the tangled roots before her, noting where to step and where not to step.

One of the thickest branches suddenly zoomed towards her. Story closed her eyes and waited to hear her ribs crack.

But there was only silence. Story opened her eyes and looked at the plant.

The vine had stopped just short of her waist; now it curled around her delicately, like a belt. Cool and thick, it wrapped gently around her waist and lifted her a few inches off the ground.

Story placed one hand on the vine- it was gnarled in some spots and smooth in others. She ran her hands over the vine, gently stroking it. It wasn't a mean tree, she decided- just misunderstood.

The vine released her, and she crept forwards quietly and sat in a small hollow between two of the biggest roots, just sitting, not doing much. She snapped the picture of the flower- it was a good shot, but she took three more, to be sure- and each time the light flashed, the Willow flinched.

"Sorry, sorry," she murmured, stroking it. "It's just a light. I won't hurt you."

Eventually it accepted her presence, and after that Story went outside and studied under the Whomping Willow on nice days. This had several advantages; it was quiet, she could study the Willow and use it for her Herbology essays, and neither Theo nor her sister could come and annoy her.

Draco had stopped sitting with all of them at lunch; Story didn't know why, but from the glares she got from Pansy, it might as well have been her fault. Daphne had asked her not to sit with them anymore, and Story had deliberately sat with them for a week anyway. Then she had gone back to the routine she had adopted the previous year, where she sat with them when Theo was around and when he was not she sat several seats away. When she did occasionally see Draco, he looked thin- sad- angry. Story wished she could help him, but Pansy had her claws out all the time these days, so she didn't dare.

She took a lot of pictures of the Willow, and in exchange for that she brought it dirt, from other parts of the castle, or rotting fruit from the kitchens, to be dumped near the roots as fertilizer. She had asked Professor Sprout about what Whomping Willows liked- there were only a few in the world, and this was the only one in Great Britain. Professor Sprout had given her a lot of useful information about how Willows were taken care of, and she helped take care of the Willow as often as she could. Her Herbology grade shot up in response; helping Professor Sprout with plants was usually detention but sometimes it was extra credit; it would be good for the O.W.L.s next year.

She sat there one early spring day, snow still on the ground, when she saw Theo walking towards her. She remained where she was; the Willow wasn't letting Theo anywhere near her. It stiffened as he came close.

"Be nice," she whispered to it, "but not too nice, if you please."

"You," called Theo, from just outside the Willow's range, "are absolutely mad."

"Well, it is quite cold for me to be just wearing a jacket, skirt, and tights, but I'm the Ice Queen," said Story, as blandly as Theo could have done.

"You're sitting under the godforsaken Whomping Willow, in early March, with no bloody coat. How are you not dead?"

"Of hypothermia, you mean? Heating Charm. Does wonders for your ears and fingers." Story found she rather enjoyed baiting Theo.

He knelt on the ground and began crawling towards her; the Willow promptly smacked him in the face. Theo scrambled backwards, tripping. His glasses fell off.

"Come out, Astoria, I want to talk to you."

"Every conversation we've had since November involves you trying to snog me. It's not happening, Theodore."

"I don't want to talk to you about that." His voice was forlorn.

"What is it, then?"

"It's-" Theo hesitated. "It's about my dad."

Story remained motionless. Theo's dad was a former Death Eater, as she well knew- he'd gone to Azkaban for a stint and was then released, after which he had married Theo's mum and had Theo. He had not been a kind father; Theodore Nott Senior was a large, well-built man, and Theo was slender and wiry and bookish.

Story sighed. What good was she as a friend when she wouldn't listen to Theo's problems? She patted the Willow softly, then put her things into her bag, stood, and walked out to where Theo was. "Let's walk," she said quietly.

They meandered along the hillside, heading in the direction of the Quidditch pitch. She could see the Slytherin team practicing, and wondered if Draco was cutting practice or not.

"The Death Eaters are gathering, I suppose you know," he said eventually, his hands in his pockets.

"I do know." It wasn't something she wanted to dwell on. She had her own opinions on You-Know-Who's need for the Death Eaters, and having studied him quite thoroughly for History of Magic, she knew that he didn't need an army. Gellert Grindelwald hadn't needed an army, although he had had one, too. She thought that the whole idea of Death Eaters was pointless, just as the Dark Lord's facade of pureblood superiority was pointless. She didn't know what it was, but she believed he had something else in mind.

"They want me to join at the end of the year," said Nott eventually.

Story's stomach lurched a little. "If you want to, then go ahead."

"Do you want me to?"

No, she didn't. As annoyingly lovesick as Theodore Nott was, he was a friend. She didn't want him anywhere near the Death Eaters. "It doesn't matter to me," she said tiredly.

A patch of black ice glazed the path before them; Theo took out his wand and melted it with a jet of hot air. "I'll still be here at the school next year. Crabbe and Goyle have both had offers, too, and they've written back and accepted already."

"I wasn't aware they could write."

"But I'm still considering," continued Theodore, as though he hadn't heard her jab at Crabbe and Goyle, "and I want to know whether you think it's a wise decision."

"Is this a romantic question, an honest personal opinion question, or a political question?" said Story patiently.

Theo caught and held her gaze. "Any of the above."

"Politically I would not," she said. "Your father is already a Death Eater. If you become one, and the Dark Lord doesn't succeed in getting his regime up, then you're headed for Azkaban. If you believe in the cause and you're willing to go to Azkaban to defend it, then you can do as you please."

"And personally?"

"I just gave you my personal opinion," said Story.

"No, you didn't."

Story sighed. He knew her too well.

"Come on, just tell me."

"I don't think you should," she said. "Because I don't think that it matters, honestly, whether someone has Muggles for parents or not. Look at Hermione Granger. Muggleborn and smarter than the lot of you. And right below her in your class rankings is Terry Boot, and he's a half-blood. In fact, you don't have a pure-blood in your class rankings until fifth place, which belongs to Padma Patil. And after her is Draco, and then you, and then it's mixed all the way through to the bottom." She shrugged. "Your blood or birth doesn't preclude talent. I don't believe in blood superiority."

Theo was staring at her, his gaze unfathomable. Then he crumpled.

Story was shocked. She had never seen Theo cry before. He wasn't a pretty crier. They sat down on a section of the hill without snow on the ground and he sobbed into his hands and she sat next to him and patted him awkwardly on the back.

"My dad sent me a letter, too," he finally said. "I'd more or less come to the same conclusion as you- it's not smart, politically, until the Dark Lord's government is in place. But my dad sent me a letter and, well, you know my dad." He tried to pass it off lightly, but his face betrayed volumes.

"If you'll be safer from him, then you should join," said Story gently. "If he's going to hurt you for not joining, then the smartest thing to do would be to join."

She didn't love him romantically- didn't really even like him as a friend, because he insisted on being romantic and he was always there, always hovering like a mother hen. But he looked up at her, and his face was in so much pain, so much fear. She also had to wonder if he was faking it. She had learned that Theo was a skilled actor. But there was real pain there, and there was fear.

No, he wasn't lying. He needed someone.

She had come to that conclusion herself, but he was already moving towards her, and Story didn't really want to kiss him, didn't want him to kiss her, just wanted to hug him and tell him it would be all right. But Theo had kissed her before she could stop him, and she sat there and let him, because he needed to do this, he was hurting so badly.

And then he broke away and looked at her. "Nothing?" he said ruefully.

_Just like every conversation we've had since November, Theo._ "Nothing."

He sighed. "I'll get you in the end," he mumbled.

That sounded more like a threat than a promise to Story, but she said nothing, just let it slide by like rain on glass.


	6. Chapter 5: Betrayals

Chapter Five: Betrayals

"_You have until midnight_."

Story was petrified. She stood next to Daphne, clenching her sister's hand for what had to be the first time in years. The Dark Lord had been standing over the Ministry for ten months now, and she had been afraid and alone for all of them. Draco had been gone half the year, which left Pansy as whinier than usual. Crabbe and Goyle and Theo were there, but Theo had gone through with his plans to become a Death Eater, had had the Mark tattooed onto his right arm by Voldemort himself. He was proud. Story was disappointed, but she never told him. Instead, she swallowed her pride and went to Pansy and told her very quietly that there had never been anything between herself and Draco, it was only a conversation, that she was very sorry and could they please be friends? Pansy accepted, gushing about how she hadn't been angry and oh, have you been feeling guilty the whole time, you poor dear, I was over that _ages_ ago...

...and then it was Pansy's voice, trembling, shrieking over the silence: "But he's there! Potter's _there_! Someone grab him!"

_Really_? thought Story, disgusted.

But the Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, and Ravenclaws stood between them, and Story didn't see Harry Potter anymore behind that sea of mutinous faces. She stared at them, then looked away, and all she could think was how very ashamed, at this moment, she was to be of Slytherin House.

"Thank you, Miss Parkinson," said Professor McGonagall brusquely. "You will leave the Hall first with Mr. Filch. If the rest of your House could follow."

Story filed out behind her sister, still holding her hand. Daphne was seventeen, overage, but she was shaking, her hand slick with sweat. Story did not shake or tremble.

"Excellent," said a voice from behind her. It was Theo; he was talking to Crabbe and Goyle and Draco, who had come back after Easter, thinner and with a greyness to his face that made Story want to tell him to take a very long nap, until he was healthy and smiling again. "What's the plan?"

"Potter's looking for something," said Draco softly. "I want to know what. I'll take Crabbe and Goyle and head off to find Potter. You get the rest of the House and join the Dark Lord." Was it just her imagination, or did he sound tired?

Story almost stopped walking. She didn't want to fight. She didn't want Theo to fight, or Daphne. She pictured them falling, dying, dead, blood streaming from the corners of their mouth. Magic did not stop you from hurting.

"Torrie, are you all right?" said Daphne impatiently. "Come on."

Story shook her head. "I think I'm going to throw up," she whispered.

"Here, let me," said Theo, and the next moment she was being carried, scooped up in Theo's thin arms as though she were no more than a doll.

"I can walk," she said irritably. "I just don't feel well."

Theo studied her. "Can you fight?"

"I don't want to."

He stiffened.

"I don't care who wins this," she qualified. "I am so sick of waiting for the Ministry to decide what is going to happen to our world. I just want to take a Pain Potion and curl up in a little ball on my bed and sleep."

She looked up at Theo and she saw none of the tenderness he had seemed to harbor. This was a man caught up in the glory of battle. "You're a traitor to Slytherin House," he whispered, so softly that nobody else heard but her.

She stared at him until he looked away, ashamed. "I am no such thing," she answered. "You remember _The Quotes of Phineas Nigellus_, yeah? I'm choosing to save my own neck, Nott. You can do what you want with your own."

The worm turned. The dark-green eyes, once rather friendly, were full of rage and pain and anger. "Well, _Greengrass_, I thought you didn't want to be a Slytherin, but I guess I was mistaken. You're taking those words and twisting them."

He set her down roughly by Daphne. Filch had led them to their dormitories and was in the process of locking them in; Crabbe and Goyle punched the old man, and Mrs. Norris yowled from the hallways. Theo stepped away from her and stood on a table. "_Who will join the Dark Lord_!" he bellowed. "_Who will fight_?"

The answering cheer staggered Story. Most of them rushed out the door. Pansy and Tracey got up, and Scarlett joined them. Daphne hesitated, looking at Story.

"Are you going to be okay?" she asked.

Story shook her head. "Neither of us will be okay, Daph."

Daphne burst into tears. "You've already chosen to stay here, haven't you?" she said gently.

Theo was watching their exchange. Story nodded.

"Why?" said Daphne quietly. "You don't owe anything to Harry Potter, or any of them."

Story cupped her hands around her mouth and whispered into Daphne's ear. "This will ensure that the Greengrasses survive. If, as is likely, the Dark Lord wins, our family will be safe because you fought for the Dark Lord. On the off chance that the Dark Lord is defeated, our family will be safe because I chose not to fight."

Daphne's eyes widened. "What if I die?" she asked quietly.

"I love you," said Story, and it was very sincere. She did indeed love her sister. Even her sister thought she was a pestilential brat.

"I love you too, Torrie," said Daphne, and she hugged her tightly. Story thought about telling her that she preferred to be called Story, but something in her gut told her to wait, that the time was not right.

Theo held the door for the few remaining Slytherins on their way out. Daphne passed him on the way. He was the only one left. He stared at Story, one dark-green eye twitching.

"If we both live," he said suddenly, "will you marry me?"

Story stared at him for a moment, then said quietly, "Good-bye, Theodore Nott."

His only response was to slam the door closed.

She sat there, alone in the common room. Every other Slytherin student had gone to fight- even the youngest ones, the first-and-second-years. Oh, God, they were all going to die. She could see them, tiny, broken bodies on the grounds of Hogwarts.

Perhaps the Dark Lord would not let them fight, after all.

But what if he did?

What could she do?

She couldn't just let them die.

She took a deep breath and walked out of the Slytherin common room. She saw Professor Slughorn walking down the corridor towards her. He stared at her.

"They all left to fight with the Dark Lord," said Story quietly. She had a soft spot for Professor Slughorn. He praised her Potions, although she never went to a single Slug Club meeting.

"Ah, I see." His shoulders slumped.

"We have to get the youngest ones," said Story presently. "They shouldn't have to fight."

He nodded distractedly. "I can't go, my dear," he told her. "I have to stay here. Minerva would never forgive me."

"I will go," said Story quietly. "I will make sure that they stay out of harm's way."

He nodded. "I'll tell the other teachers that you're on the right side."

"I don't know what side I'm on," answered Story. "I don't know what right and wrong are anymore."

She walked away, following the sounds of voices upstairs, to the passage the other Slytherin students would have taken out. They would have used the kitchen doors.

And that sparked an idea in Story's brain. She headed for the kitchens.

The house-elves stood in the kitchen, frightened and afraid; one elderly one was standing on the table, shouting that they had to fight. About half of them were agreeing with him, and the other half were shrinking away, timid and emotionless.

"Excuse me," said Story politely. A few of them turned to look at her. Most of them didn't hear.

She tried again. "Excuse me!"

There. They were all looking at her, big eyes and bat ears.

"Thank you. I'm Astoria Greengrass. Did the other Slytherins come through this door?"

"Yes! Yes, they did!" squeaked a young female elf with a nose like an onion. "They has all gone to fight for He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named!"

"Some of them are too young," said Story firmly. "I know that some of you want to fight against the Dark Lord, and I understand that, but I think some of you don't want to, either. Would you be willing to come with me? I'm going to join the Dark Lord, but I'm not going to fight. I want to help with the wounded and keep the younger children from fighting. They'll just be hurt or killed. Will you help me?"

There was a long silence, and then the older elf who was clamoring to fight said gruffly, "My name is Kreacher, miss, and some of us will fight. Some of us will help Miss Torrie. Miss Torrie has asked, not ordered."

Nods went through the room. Story nodded. She held out her hands. "Take me to the Dark Lord, then. And be prepared to be afraid."

A few hands clasped hers; more elves crowded around and clutched at her legs or clothes or other elves. Then they vanished with a crack into nothingness.

They stumbled into being in the middle of Hogsmeade. The Slytherin students were milling about, and Death Eaters dispersed through the crowd.

"And who is this latecomer?" said a soft, familiar voice.

Story turned slowly, still surrounded by frightened elves, to face the Dark Lord. She had only seen his face a few times, when he had shown up for the beginning-of-year-feast and in the _Daily Prophet_ occasionally.

"My name is Astoria Greengrass, my Lord," she said quietly. Every particle of her mind was screaming for her to run away.

"Why don't you run, Astoria Greengrass?" he said languidly.

She stiffened.

"I can know your thoughts, Astoria... they border on treasonous."

"I'm really not treasonous," said Astoria, and as she spoke her voice trembled. "Please, my Lord, I've come to ask to stay behind the lines. I don't want to see pure blood spilled any more than you do. If you allow eleven-and-twelve-year-olds to fight, some of them will die."

"The Order of the Phoenix will not hurt children, Astoria," said the Dark Lord smoothly.

She swallowed, and closed her eyes. "But the group known as Dumbledore's Army will, my Lord. They will see all of us who fight as treachery. Let those too young to fight remain here and tend to the wounded, my Lord. I don't wish to seem a coward, though I know I am one. I just can't bear for people I know and care about to be hurt."

There was a long, pregnant pause.

"Impressive," said the Dark Lord, finally. "You truly do mean it. Your ideas on blood superiority are different, and that will need to be punished, of course."

"I will gladly accept my punishment after the battle, my Lord," said Story. "The elves I've brought with me can help me, if you don't wish to waste fighters on medical care."

"You have thought of everything, it seems." His tone bordered on amusement. "Very well, Astoria Greengrass. You are fifteen, correct?"

She nodded, swallowing.

"Let all those younger than fifteen remain here, to tend to the wounded, should they need it. Those of your year, such as yourself, may choose whether to stay or go. I hope the older students will also join me." The tone of his voice told her that there was no hope- it was an order.

Story nodded, relief flooding her body. "Thank you, my Lord."

There was a pause, as he surveyed her, and Astoria closed her thoughts away as well as she could and knelt before the Dark Lord.

"You will be a fine wife for one of my servants someday," he said softly. She wanted to shudder, to leave this old man's- if he was even a man- lecherous gaze.

She nodded again. "Thank you, my Lord. If it is acceptable to you, we will set up the infirmary here in the village."

He nodded. "You may go."

Story stood up, beckoned to the elves, and half of the Slytherins followed her to the nearest building. The looks of relief on the faces of the youngest ones made all of it worth it, even the filthy feeling that had come over her when the Dark Lord had looked at her body.

"We might be caring for some people who are very, very hurt," she said loudly. "You'll have to do what I say."

"Why should we?" sneered a boy.

"Because I'm a fifth-year, and because I'm brilliant," snapped Story. "If you don't like it, you can go out with the others and get yourself killed. I don't much care. I'm not doing this for you."

There was a long pause, and then she said, "Come on, push all the tables to the side." The building was The Three Broomsticks. Madam Rosmerta was still behind the bar, wearing her fluffy nightgown.

"What the hell's going on?" she demanded.

"A battle, or some such thing," said Story. "I'm setting up an infirmary. I don't much care which side you go to or if you want to stay here."

Madam Rosmerta nodded faintly. "I- all right, then," she said weakly, but then she sighed and drew herself up. "I'll help you. You'll need it."

"Thank you," said Story. She was touched.

All the tables and chairs were pushed to the side; The Three Broomsticks seemed oddly bare with all the space in the middle of the room. "Stoke up the fire," Story ordered. A boy she recognized from her year went to do so.

Rosmerta disappeared for a moment, then came out with a lot of bedsheets. "Linens," she told Story, waving her wand to fold them in a pile on the counter. "For bandages, if they're needed."

"Thank you," she said again. "Do you think you could go over some of the basic first aid spells with the younger kids? A lot of them don't know it because magic solves everything, and their parents and St. Mungo's do that sort of work."

"Anapneo for airway, Episkey for breaks, sprains, and cuts, Stupefy for anaesthetic..." murmured Rosmerta, heading towards the younger students. Story was relieved to see that the older woman had gotten rid of her high heels and was padding through The Three Broomsticks in her stocking feet.

"What shall we do, Miss?" squeaked an elf.

"I'm going to ask you to do something very dangerous," said Story, "and you're allowed to say no if you want. I need you to listen on the battlefield for people being wounded. I don't care if they're Death Eaters or Order of the Phoenix, I don't care if they're Slytherin or Dumbledore's Army. If they're wounded and they want to live, Apparate in and Apparate them out. We'll do the rest. But you don't have to, if you're afraid."

"We would be honored!" squeaked the elves. "Miss Torrie is kind- she asks, she doesn't order. We will bring the hurting wizards here and make them safe."

"Thank you," said Story, stooping and kissing the nearest elf on the forehead. "It's really very noble of you."

She straightened up. The Slytherins, elves, and Rosmerta were looking at her for orders.

"Is there anything else we need?" she asked them.

"Food and water, for people in shock," said a girl with curly, reddish-blonde hair, stepping forwards. "People need to eat after they've been in shock, if they can keep it down. I'm studying to be a Healer," she added.

"Remind me your name," said Story.

"Irene DuBois," said the girl. "Fourth-year."

"Right. Irene, I want you in charge of those who come in straight away. It's like the emergency room at St. Mungo's. You'll be dealing with things that are severe, like broken limbs and heavy bleeding. Pick fifteen people to help you, quick, capable sorts. I need someone to volunteer to work on the-" she swallowed. "-morgue, and I'll be heading up spell damage, people who aren't functioning until their spell is lifted. Volunteer for the morgue?"

There was a long pause, and then the boy who had lit the fire, from her year, stepped forwards. "What were you meanin' to do with the bodies, if I may be so bold?"

"Your name," she said.

"Shouldn't you be knowin' it? Eogan Southers, a fifth-year like your pretty self." He bowed. "I'll be headin' up the mortuary detail, if it's all right with you, but I'd like to know what we're to do with bodies before we're gettin' one."

His warm brogue was gentle in her ears. She swallowed and replied, "Each person who dies, be it in battle or in our care, should be taken upstairs to the empty rooms. The dead may be laid anywhere so long as they're laid out as straight and flat as they can be. Don't take sheets to cover the bodies with, just cover their faces with their jackets and cross their arms."

"Will do, Greengrass."

"Select seven other boys of good stature to help you," she told him.

"What about the rest of us?" demanded a second-year girl.

"I need a few of you to find red paint, bright red paint, and black paint as well," said Story.

"Nobody's gonna see black paint, it's one in the bloody morning!" shouted a younger boy.

"They will if it's layered on glow-in-the-dark red," said Story firmly. "I want you to pick the wall of this building closest to Hogwarts and paint the whole side of it red. Then, dry it with a Heating Charm and paint with the black over it and write 'Infirmary.' I-N-F-I-R-M-A-R-Y. Got it?"

"What if the enemy sees it, too?" asked a younger girl.

"In a hospital, the only enemy is death," answered Story. "Four of you on the paint job, then. The rest of you split between Irene and Rosmerta, help with the food. We'll need to eat, too. If any of you know how to brew up an Invigoration Draught, find a cauldron and start right now, I don't care what team you're on. We're going to need it."

"I have a few of them stockpiled," offered Madam Rosmerta. "Shall I-"

"Yes, please," said Story, "and if you could send a few students- third-year and up, preferably, around to knock on the doors in the village, tell them we're setting up a hospital, send Invigoration Draughts and bedsheets and anything else they've got that's medical or food here."

There was a crack, as an elf disappeared; moments later there was another crack, and a man lay on the ground, mumbling to himself. Blood began to pool on the floor.

"Irene!" shouted Story, and both of them swooped down on the man, wands out. Story didn't look at his face.

"What first?" she asked Irene.

"Stop the bleeding," said Irene, waving her wand over the man and beginning to mumble.

The man stirred slowly. "God, I- Merlin- what's-" He looked panicked, suddenly. He wasn't very old.

"Hi," said Story soothingly, leaning her face close to his, "Hi, dear. My name is Torrie. You're a little bit hurt, but we're going to help you, okay? What's your name, dear?"

He blinked rapidly. His face was losing color quickly. "Stan," he mumbled after a moment. "Stan Shunpike."

"Hello, Stan. What's your job? What do you do for a living?"

"Work at the Ministry. D'partment of Magical Transportashun." His words were slurring together.

"Irene," said Story calmly.

"Bleeding's stopped, but he's lost a lot of blood," said Irene. "I'm going to work on painkillers. Hey!" She shouted at her team. "One of you lot take an elf back to the castle and get Blood-Replenishing Potions! I need them stat!"

"What House where you in at Hogwarts, Stan?" said Story gently, cradling the man's head so that he was looking at her.

"I- erm- Hufflepuff," he said dazedly. Then he burst into tears.

"What's wrong, Stan?" she asked him.

"I had a- there were voices- in m'head..." He shuddered. "They made me be a Death Eater, they made me kill people, I didn't wanna but they made me..."

"Shhhh," said Story. There was a horrible feeling of ice-cold guilt in her stomach, a sense of foreboding. "Don't worry about them. Are the voices gone?"

"Yeah, they let go of me when I passed out."

"Then we'll let them think you're still passed out, sweetheart," said Story soothingly. "Did you do something else before you were in the Ministry?"

"Yeah." He sniffled, and snot and tears and blood were smeared across his face. "I worked on the Knight Bus."

"The Knight Bus? How fun! Tell me about it," said Story. She injected as much enthusiasm into her voice as she could.

"Eleven Sickles," he murmured, "thirteen for a- an 'ot water bottle- fifteen for hot chocolate an' a toofbrush inna color of your choice..." His head lolled to the side.

"Blood-Replenishing Potion at work," said Irene briskly. "It'll knock him out for about forty minutes, and then he'll be good to go."

Story let go of Stan's head, placing him gently on the floor. She turned and looked at the first years. There were ten or twelve of them, standing there, gaping at her, terrified.

"Do you see what I did?" she asked him. "That's what you get to do. If they come in and they're about to fall unconscious, you talk to them, and you make them talk to you. It keeps them from going into shock. Do you understand?"

They nodded.

"Excellent. Be ready to help wherever you're needed."

Story wandered the building. Stan was their only patient as of yet. She watched the third-years scurrying from building to building, arms laden with phials of potion. Sometimes the adults from the stores came back with them. Ambrosius Fluke and his plump wife came in with a pile of candy.

"Some of these are Stay-Awake Sweets," she explained to Story. "You and the other workers can suck on them until you get more Invigoration Draughts. And there's chocolate for endorphins, and for the dementors-"

"Dementors?" said Story.

"They all went straight past here about an hour ago," said Ambrosius heavily, "to help fight. I 'spect a few of them will come back, though, because there's plenty of emotion for them to feed on here."

"We need a defense system," said Story. "How much do you know about spell damage?"

"I worked for a while in St. Mungo's before I married Brose," said Ambrosius's plump wife. "I can help with that. Brose'll help Rosmerta cook."

"Then I can work on defending the infirmary," said Story. "Excellent."

She went outside, breathing in the cold air. The lemony-mint flavor of the Stay-Awake Sweet stung in her mouth; it was too sweet and too sharp at the same time. She knew that her body was tired, but she would not sleep. She would stand guard. Eogan Southers passed her; he winked roguishly and grinned. Story was slightly disconcerted by this- she wasn't the flirting type, and anyway there was a battle going on.

And then a rattling cold overtook her. Cold everywhere, and she could see mist forming, up and down High Street... the dementors were coming...

"_Expecto Patronum!"_

A tiny silver form leaped from the tip of her wand, trailing silver mist. She watched the little mouse scurry from corner to corner.

But she could not hold the infirmary alone. Even now she could still feel the chill of the dementors...

A bright silver marten joined her mouse; Eogan stood next to her. The chill faded.

"Sure and I can't leave a pretty girl like yourself alone out here," he said cheerfully.

"We're in a battle and you're flirting with me," she said dubiously.

"There's no time like the present, darlin'. What if I die? Canna flirt with you then, can I?"

He was right, but Story wasn't even thinking about flirting. Much. The dementors, chastised, moved downhill towards the battle. She could hear the cries, see the flashes of light.

"Sure an' I would hate to be down there," shivered Eogan.

"I'm glad you stayed," Story told him sincerely. "You're more needed up here. The Dark Lord could even spare a few more- we'll be spread thin."

She could hear more cracks, and shouting from inside. She resisted the urge to go in- Mrs. Fluke and Irene would have to take care of whoever was injured-

"Torrie!" shouted a voice- Irene again. "Torrie, it's your sister!"

Story inhaled sharply.

"Go in, darlin', I reckon I can hold of the creepies," said Eogan, twirling his wand. Several more martens leaped from it and began circling the building.

"I'll send reinforcements," she told him, and darted inside.

Daphne lay on the ground, Irene working frantically over her. Her sister was pale and lifeless, the freckles standing out starkly on her nose. She could see Greg Goyle over in the corner, and several hooded, masked men. One of them was fighting. "I'M BLOODY FINE, GIT OFF ME, YA LITTLE BITCHES!" He backhanded a girl and she staggered back, nose bleeding.

Story walked past her sister and pointed her wand at the man. He was suddenly very still.

"This is an infirmary," she said coldly. "A house-elf brought you here because you have been grievously wounded or damaged and you still want to live. I'll thank you not to hit any of my friends."

The man stared at her. "Ya know who I am, missy?"

"I don't care if you're the Dark Lord himself, you're injured, you've been belly-cut and we're hard-pressed to save a belly cut as it is. Lie down and shut up."

To her surprise, he obeyed. For good measure, Story knocked him out anyway with a Stunner.

She returned to her sister; Irene had managed to get Daphne conscious.

"Are you all right, Daphne?" she asked her sister.

"Yeah," breathed Daphne. "I don't- I don't wanna go back-" She burst into tears.

"Shhhh," said Story soothingly. She glanced around, then whispered, "You don't have to go back. I can knock you out for the rest of it, if you want. Would you like that?"

Daphne stared at her, then nodded gratefully. Story pointed her wand at her sister, then murmured, "_Stupefy._" Daphne lolled back, her eyes closing.

Irene moved to the next patient; Story dragged Daphne over to where the tables were and found a pillow and blanket. She placed the pillow under her sleeping sister's head and wrapped her in the blanket.

Then she found reinforcements for Eogan, to help guard the infirmary, and she helped tend to the patients, but she was kept very busy, especially after the Dark Lord sent the thrilling announcement through Hogwarts Valley that Harry Potter was to come to him alone- the hour of reprieve, at some three-thirty in the morning, was long and full of Death Eaters and Slytherins demanding to be treated.

"CALM DOWN!" Story finally bellowed, casting a Silencing Charm over the room. Everyone was silent at once. "We're getting to you all as fast as we're able to, if your injuries are minor then tend them yourself! We're dealing with deaths here!"

She decided that becoming a Healer was definitely not an option in her future any more. If it was always this hectic, she would rather have a quiet job.

She removed the Silencing Charm and said loudly, "Next person to see me, please."

Someone familiar limped over to her- Theo. His ankle was twisted, and he had had a plain mask on, but it was pushed up over his hair. She examined his ankle, then pointed her wand at it. "_Episkey_. Next!"

"Astoria-"

"It can wait, Nott. I'm a tad busy here."

He was shunted aside by other patients. Story treated everyone with the same rapid brusqueness that she had adopted in dealing with the first Death Eater.

Eventually, they were all gone. They had fifteen minutes until the hour appointed by the Dark Lord was up. She breathed a sigh of relief.

"Here." Eogan handed her a cup of hot chocolate and a glass phial. "Invigoration Draught first, then chocolate. I have guards at every corner. All the Death Eaters have gone to You-Know-Who."

She looked at him; the appellation for the Dark Lord used by most wizards was generally an indication that they didn't like him. "What do you think of this?" she asked him, gesturing to all of it, everything. The ruined castle down the hill, the glimmering lake, the bustling Three-Broomsticks-turned-infirmary.

"I think 'tis stupid, that's what," said Eogan flatly. "Blood Superiority- stupidest idea ever. Even if we are superior in some way to Muggles, the only difference to it is that we've got magic, and they don't. And the Muggles outnumber us something like a million to one. You can't kill them off."

Story had never thought of it that way before; it made quite a lot of sense.

"So do you go by Astoria or Torrie?" he asked her suddenly.

"Usually Astoria." She downed the Invigoration Draught; heat coursed through her veins, and she shuddered before feeling energy return. "My sister and my parents are allowed to call me Torrie."

"Astoria." He smiled, a shy, sly smile. "'Tis fair beautiful, that name."

"Thank you, Eogan."

The wait continued; all was silent until some point around four, four-forty-five. As the sun rose over the mountains, Story moved to the outside, to guard there, and she watched the procession of Death Eaters, led by the Dark Lord, move down to the castle. She could see Professor Hagrid, carrying a limp form. She was stunned- she hadn't actually supposed that Harry Potter would go to meet his own death.

_But then,_she reminded herself,_ that's why you're a Slytherin and he's a Gryffindor._

"Come on," she said abruptly to Eogan.

"Where to?" he asked.

"I have the feeling," she said, gazing down at the crowd gathering in front of Hogwarts, "that we're going to want to tell people that we've saved lives. Whoever wins, we'll tell them that we saved lives."

"Come with me, then," said a new voice. Story looked over and recognized the old barman from the Hog's Head. "You're a Slytherin girl, arencha? You've saved plenty of lives that ought to have been left to go."

She thought of Daphne, of Stan Shunpike, of the seventy-five-odd Slytherin students who had run the infirmary. "I've also saved plenty of innocent lives," she snapped. "I've said it once and I'll say it again: the only enemy in a hospital is death."

He stared at her, his gruff eyes shining, and then she realized who he looked like. "Professor Dumbledore's dead, isn't he?"

"I'm his no-good brother, Aberforth," said the barman, "and don't you forget it, Slytherin girl. What's your name?"

"Astoria Greengrass." She fell into step with him. Eogan and Irene followed her, leaving Madam Rosmerta and the Flukes in charge of the infirmary. "Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Dumbledore."

"Likewise," he said wryly, "to meet a Slytherin more interested in helping others than in saving their own skin."

"I was interested in that," said Story. "I figured I could save my own and a lot of others at the same time. Why the hell not?" She wasn't normally this profane, but this was a war, and she had the feeling that Aberforth was on the right side of it.

He walked towards the Hog's Head, though, instead of heading for the crowd. "Where are you going?" she asked him.

"Shortcut," he said gruffly, "and if you want in you'll have to promise not to cast a single spell against the Order of the Phoenix of Dumbledore's Army."

"Promised," said Story.

They went into the Hog's Head and he opened the picture of the girl above the fireplace. They went through the tunnel a long way before they stumbled out the other side and reached-

-a charred mess of a room, full of ash and smoke.

"Damn it," muttered Aberforth, "that's what you get for letting Potter back in here with a couple of junior Death Eaters..."

"Junior Death Eaters?" she asked, refusing to betray the sudden punching of her gut into a worried ache.

"The Malfoy kid and his cronies," said Aberforth, and his voice was disgusted. "I told Potter we should hold hostages, but no, he insists on being noble. And now the Room of Requirement is dead and gone." He shook his head.

They left the room; Story nearly jumped when she saw Goyle lying there, still unconscious. Aberforth pointed his wand; Goyle's chest rose.

"Alive," said the older man, moving the body down the hall aways. "Better hide him, any vigilantes of Dumbledore's army come along, they'll wreck him."

"Thank you," said Story.

"Ain't doin' it fer you," said Aberforth.

They went through the halls, all familiar, all ruined, all dusty with the grinding of stone on stone, or sticky with the blood of anyone, everyone. Some corridors were open to the sky now, some of them were gone.

But suddenly there was a lot of noise, and Aberforth turned to look at them. "I'm going to go and join the last stand," he said, "because that's what this is. You want to come with, you can. You want to stay here, you can do that, too."

Story took out her wand and followed Aberforth. Eogan and Irene came with her. Aberforth's eyes lit up approvingly as they joined him.

The next hour was a whir- she remembered little of it, other than that she didn't do much actual fighting. She didn't even see when Harry Potter killed the Dark Lord- she was hunched over a wounded centaur, trying to stanch the flow of blood as he kicked angrily at her, disdaining her help.

And then afterwards, she found Eogan and Irene and they went to the tall black man who stood in the center of the room, and explained to him what had happened and how the infirmary had come to be and if they liked, they could start taking some of the wounded there for treatment.

Kingsley Shacklebolt looked steadily at her, and for the first time in her life she was not scared of someone who she should have been scared of. She had been on the wrong side the whole time- hearing Harry Potter speak to the Dark Lord, she had learned that. But Kingsley Shacklebolt reached for her, and he placed his hands on her shoulders and said sincerely, "Thank you, Miss Greengrass. We've had no idea what to tell the parents of the Slytherin students. Could you take them up to see their children?"

And so it was that Story's morning ended with her leading a bunch of worried, stuck-up parents up the hill to Hogsmeade, and dodging out of the way when their children swarmed from the house, telling them about their infirmary, all of them as proud of it as if they had built it with their own two hands, and then she found Daphne, pale but healed, and their parents made their way up the hill and it was all right, it was going to be all right.


	7. Chapter 6: Curled

Chapter Six: Curled

"Most of the students in your year have elected to take their O.W.L.s over again, that I'll allow," said Professor McGonagall, her face quizzical. "But your O.W.L.s were excellent, Miss Greengrass- Outstanding scores in all of your main subjects- Transfiguration, Potions, Charms, Defense Against the Dark Arts as well as the ridiculous excuse for a Dark Arts exam you took last year, Herbology, and History of Magic- and your supplementary classes are also excellent, Arithmancy, Ancient Runes, Muggle Studies, Care of Magical Creatures, and Divination. That's quite the workload, and you've pulled it off admirably."

Story waited for the inevitable "why," her face stony and unchanged.

"But why on earth are you dropping all of your supplementary subjects?" finished the teacher. "You've only opted to take five classes. Transfiguration is fine, Potions comes with high recommendations, as does Charms. I've disregarded your year's Dark Arts O.W.L. and replaced it with your fourth-year Defense Against the Dark Arts score with Professor Snape. You performed admirably there. Most people do drop History of Magic, so that's understandable. And you've kept Herbology, too. But don't you want any more classes? I think the Healer's requirement-"

"I don't want to be a Healer," said Story quickly.

"That wasn't what you told Professor Slughorn last year during your career consultation."

"I've sort of learned that I hate Healing," said Story, "given my role during the Battle of Hogwarts."

She spoke carefully; most people knew what she had done by now, and she had been both praised and criticized for it. Pansy, an intern at the _Daily Prophet_, had written a scathing article about her- from the point of view of the survivors, of course, criticizing her for attending to the needs of Death Eaters and traitors. Daphne had been living at home with a part-time job as a waitress in a fancy Wizarding restaurant. Crabbe, Goyle, and Nott were in prison. Nobody knew what had happened to Draco, though his parents were on house arrest. But some people had written her letters of congratulations and gratitude for the lives of the youngest of Slytherin House. And Story, what with Eogan and Irene and the other kids in her House still at Hogwarts, suddenly found herself with friends.

Professor McGonagall studied her, then said abruptly, "Well, you did discuss a few other career options with Professor Slughorn, didn't you?"

"As of last year, I was quite sure I wanted to be a Healer. We discussed no other options." Story's voice was quiet. She didn't feel like being angry.

"Would you like to discuss these options now? I have the pamphlets here in my office-"

"I know what I want to do," said Story. "I would like to be a photographer."

There was a long silence, and then Professor McGonagall said flatly, "A photographer."

"The _Daily Prophet_ requires photography with their articles," said Story. "The _Quibbler_ generally goes with hand-drawn cartoons, but with readership up, Mr. Lovegood might consider hiring a photographer. _Witch Weekly_ does photography. All of the major academic periodicals do photography."

"It's a complete waste of your skills," said McGonagall, her lips thinning in a way that Story knew foreboded no good.

"I know," she answered. She just wanted to be done with this interview. "But it's what I want."

There was another long pause, and then Professor McGonagall sighed. "At least take a few more classes. Arithmancy and Ancient Runes, for instance. If you take those and attain N.E.W.T.s in them, you'll be have the credentials for a reasonable job, should photography fail to sustain you in terms of living."

Story considered this. "That makes sense," she allowed. "Do I have to take any of the other classes?"

"Not if you don't want to," said McGonagall. She hesitated, then said reluctantly, "I generally tend to bias myself against students of Slytherin House, Astoria, but you are an exception. One cannot help but admire a student that works so hard. I should hate to see you waste that hard work on cobwebs and fancies."

"Professor," said Story, standing up to leave, "we're witches. We live in a world of cobwebs and fancies."

She left then, and she was not in a bad mood exactly but a terse one, and she was taking two more classes now. And she was a sixth-year, and most of the people in her year had opted to re-take their fifth year and their O.W.L.s. This included Eogan. He was around, but she didn't see him much, because he was working hard.

So she curled in on herself, as she always did when people abandoned her- even when they didn't mean it- and she read and grew. And sometimes at night when she was cold and lonely she would pull the covers up over her head and cast her Patronus, which warmed her over all the time, and it would stay with her, docile and tame, until she thought about people who she kept shut out of a little corner of her heart. Two names: one of them had torn her a little, at first, and the other had cracked her wide open after long abuse of their friendship. And she did not think those names, did not think Draco and then did not think Theo, because these days they were Malfoy, Malfoy travelling in Europe and Nott, Nott in a five-year sentence in Azkaban. What she wouldn't have given to be able to talk to one of them now, either one.

It was long, her sixth year. Repairs were still being made to the castle, though it was definitely habitable. The Slytherin dormitories, being underground, were untouched. Story had managed to bully her way into getting her own room- after Professor Slughorn's retirement, the faculty had had problems selecting a head of House. Mostly it was the prefects in charge of governing Slytherin. Story was glad she was not a prefect. She knew that she should have been the prefect- she had the necessary detachment to be one- but she had not been chosen. She suspected that Professor Slughorn had interceded in her favor when she had mentioned to him during her fourth year that she did not want to be a prefect. He had had a soft spot for her.

She was also aware that she had grown at some point between her third year and the Battle of Hogwarts- the casual surveillance of her body that the Dark Lord had given her had proved that. Story looked in the mirror one morning and seen that she was tall and thin, but with something resembling a figure. A model's figure, Blaise had told her at some point during fifth year. She wondered what Blaise was doing these days, and whether he had figured out that he was more attracted to men than women. But her hair was very long- she hadn't cut it in a few years, except to trim bits from the ends when they were getting snarly. Long, dark hair, different from the rest of her family. And she knew her eyes were a queer shade of hazel- not quite blue, not quite green, not quite brown, not really even hazel at all. And she was just pale and thin and dark-haired, and her family was golden-brown everything, buxom and curvy (in Daphne's case) or broad (her parents' case). She was pretty, yes, perhaps, but not beautiful.

The year ended, and she went home for the summer. About a week after she got back, Daphne informed her that she was hosting a party at Summervale, their home- all of the old gang, invited in, and that she could come, if she wanted. Daphne and Story had gotten much closer since the Battle of Hogwarts.

The day came. Blaise was the only boy there, and Tracey had been killed- but they didn't talk about Tracey. Scarlett lounged on the patio, looking bored but pretty, in her bright pink dress; Pansy dominated the scene, whining about how Draco never answered her owls. Blaise was also wearing pink, and his hair was carefully done, a curl swirled over his forehead with a lot of Sleekeazy's Hair Potion. Definitely gay then, thought Story.

But he surprised her by drawing her aside for a moment, and saying, "Remember what I mentioned about that modelling job? Gladrags is hiring, if you're interested."

"I have another year of school left," said Story.

"That's not a no, sweetheart. How about I bring you in, see if they like you- they probably will, though, you're quite fetching these days, and semi-famous, too- and you can go for a summer's trial, and maybe shoot on Hogsmeade weekends next year, when you're not busy, and then come work full-time."

"I wouldn't mind some more experience with cameras," admitted Story. "I want to be a photographer."

He laughed. "Astoria, you're too cute to be on the back end of a camera. Trust me, you're model material."

"Blaise, darling, what are you talking to Astoria about?" called Pansy from her place on the lounge. "It looks much more interesting than what we've been talking about." Story saw her sister's face flush with embarrassment, and reminded herself that slapping Pansy Parkinson would not be a nice thing to do, and it would end up in the _Daily Prophet_ if she did.

"I was telling her about work," he said with a smile, his arm still around Story's waist. Story was surprised, until she noted that Scarlett was glaring at them with for-once undisguised malice as they rejoined the others. "I've been modelling the latest in men's travelling cloaks. The Kingsley Shacklebolt look is popular these days- I look like I've walked north from Egypt or Libya in the adverts." He snorted. "But it's a lot of fun."

"What's the fashion in women's clothing?" said Pansy, sitting up straight. Story mentally prepared herself for an hour of boredom.

"Believe it or not, Hermione Granger's look is where it's at," said Blaise. His voice was colored with surprise and contempt, though he kept it minimal. "Flowing and loose in the sleeves and below the waist- but tight in a jump-your-bones sort of way in the bust and waist. Not that Granger ever wore anything so tight as to be referred to as 'jump-your-bones'..." he trailed off, and Pansy and Daphne laughed. Scarlett smiled, but her eyes were still blazing hatred at Story. _Why does everyone think I'm stealing their boyfriends?_ wondered Story.

"I didn't know Torrie was terribly interested in fashion beyond looking acceptable," said Daphne, and Story scowled at her sister but grinned, to let her know she wasn't mad.

"Oh, I was offering her a job," said Blaise languidly. "Gladrags is hiring, and Astoria has the build of a model."

Pansy spit out her drink. Most of it landed on the floor, but Daphne's dress caught some, and Story felt a fleck on her face, which she wiped away without revealing her emotions. "Really?" she said. "Well, Astoria, that's... that's fantastic."

"Thank you," said Story. The little party had become deviously, wickedly fun. She had no doubt that Blaise was also rather enjoying himself; he wasn't especially fond of Pansy these days, and he was giving Scarlett the clear message of unavailability. "I might try for some summer work; the allowance I get is pitifully small compared to what I remember Daphne getting." She smiled at her sister again.

"You definitely got more allowance than me, Torrie," laughed Daphne. "You used those come-hither eyes on Mum and Dad and wangled your way into three more Galleons a month this last year."

"'Come-hither eyes?' What is this, a Muggle novel?"

"No," said Scarlett delicately, and with no indication in her tone that she was adding to the joke at all. "It's a soap opera, and evidently you've been cast as the adorable skank."

There was a long silence, and Story reminded herself that if she slapped _anyone_ in the presence of Pansy Parkinson, it would end up in the _Daily Prophet_.

"Well," said Blaise, ending the silence, "I have to work in an hour, so I'd better get back to my flat and shower. If you're not busy, Astoria, you could come with me and ask about the job."

"Thank you, I think I will," said Story, standing up and pulling herself from Blaise's friendly arm. "Is what I'm wearing all right, or should I change into something fancier?"

"You look fantastic, as always," said Blaise, and Story wanted to punch him in the face too. He wasn't helping.

"Let Mum and Dad know I'm gone, will you?" Story said to Daphne, who was looking from shocked Pansy to livid Scarlett to composed Blaise, clearly confused.

"Yeah, sure."

Story laid one hand on Blaise's arm, and they Disapparated.

"What the hell was that?" she asked him pointedly, when they had wound up just outside of his London flat.

"What are you talking about?" he said, clearly bewildered. "I didn't do anything."

"You were clearly using me so that Scarlett wouldn't try, to use your delicate phrasing, to jump your bones!" Story was incredibly angry. "And now she's mad at me, and Pansy's been mad at me for four and a half years because Draco was chivalrous at the Yule Ball, and they're all mad at me for not dating Nott when I had the chance. Thank you, Blaise, for making it worse."

"I don't want to hurt her feelings," said Blaise, with a sigh, as they walked into his flat. "If I told her that I... don't reciprocate her affections, she's going to be incredibly angry and I will no doubt wake one day to find her opposite me with a knife and her wand and compelling evidence for my own suicide."

"Is she that vindictive?" said Story.

"Yes."

"Then thank you for putting _me_ on her death list."

He sighed. "It wasn't very smart of me."

"You could just _tell_ her you're gay."

He winced. "That's a secret, sweetheart."

"I'm not planning on telling anyone, but there's nobody else in your flat, unless you have a boyfriend hidden away here."

"He only comes round over weekends," said Blaise, "and anyway, I don't want to tell her I'm gay because she's the _reason_ I'm gay."

Story blinked. Blaise took the opportunity to wave around the kitchen; for a bachelor pad, it was astonishingly neat, and the furniture all matched. It was quite posh, in fact. "You can get yourself a snack. There are plenty of things in the fridge and the pantry. I'm going to hop in the shower."

"Sure thing." He went into the bathroom and Story made herself a sandwich. Blaise had a lot of organic, healthy food, and there was a weird bike-looking thing in the living room, in front of a Wizarding Wireless radio and a bookshelf.

"What is this?" she asked him, pointing to the bike, when he emerged from the bathroom in only a towel and walked into his room, looking for something to wear.

"An exercise bike," said Blaise, his voice echoing through the hall. "Muggles use them to, well, exercise. I find that it's quite stress-relieving to regularly exercise."

"You don't need to exercise," said Story, glancing at Blaise's finely sculpted chest and stomach. "You're in perfect health."

"Models have to be more than perfect." He pulled a shirt on. "So, other than ogling me just now, do you have any potential boyfriends these days?"

Story rolled her eyes. "No."

"Theodore doesn't write you from his cell?"

"Prisoners don't write, firstly, and secondly he and I were never a thing. I didn't like him."

"I did," said Blaise wistfully, "but he never expressed any interest in anything other than you."

Story shuddered. "He was a very nice friend. Beyond that I simply had no interest."

"It's true that he was robbing the cradle," conceded Blaise, as he pulled a pair of leather boots on over impossibly tight jeans. "But you should feel proud. Most girls don't make conquests like that before they turn seventeen."

"It's not a conquest if I don't accept it," said Story flatly.

"Sweetheart, you have no idea about romance whatsoever," said Blaise, rolling his eyes. "Don't worry. I'll take care of you."

She punched him in the arm. He rubbed at the spot and winced. "Ready to go?"

"Absolutely." They went outside and she gripped his arm again, and they Disapparated once more.

The facilities of Gladrags Wizardwear was in Leeds. Story had no doubt that her parents would be annoyed at her for leaving without permission and going as far north as Leeds, especially with a boy two years older than herself, regardless of his sexual orientation.

Blaise drew a badge from his pocket and flashed it at the guards as he passed. "I have a guest," he told them, "and she might become a permanent employee. At least, I hope so."

"She's fine," said the guard boredly. Story followed Blaise into the building.

They made their way upstairs to the fifth floor; Blaise signed a clipboard at a desk staffed by a pretty witch with short auburn curls and a disdainful expression. "Who's the girl?" she asked.

"I'm recruiting, Jessamine," said Blaise smoothly. "Come on, Astoria."

They had hardly gotten a few steps down the hallway before someone shouted, "Blaise, you're late! Your shoot was supposed to start fifteen damn minutes ago!"

"I brought you a recruit, Neil," said Blaise, turning and smiling at the incredibly attractive man who was striding towards them, impeccably dressed in a suit that Story recognized from Muggle magazines and pictures. It made him look even more attractive.

Blaise kissed the man on both cheeks, and the man kissed back. It wasn't romantic- just a greeting. The man stepped back and looked Story up and down. "Oh, my God, she's like the answer to all my hopes and dreams, and she's not even wearing makeup or heels. What's your name, honey?"

"Astoria Greengrass," answered Story, fighting the impulse to giggle.

"That won't do. Models can't go by their real names if they're too long, and we usually just give them a fake name anyway, saves us lawsuits and stalkers. Blaise here is Blaze on the runway."

"Because I'm so hot I burn," said Blaise, his face deadpan. Story did laugh, and so did the man.

"My name's Neil Bourdelaise, honey. We can sign your hire papers right now, if you want."

"I can work this summer, but I have another year left at Hogwarts," Story told him.

"You're only sixteen? Bless you, honey, you look like you're twenty. So, you want to work this summer?"

"She could probably do the occasional Hogsmeade weekend," interjected Blaise, "and after that-"

"After that I'd love to work here," said Story.

"You haven't even seen the facilities," said Neil, one eyebrow raised.

"I don't need to," said Story. "This will be fun, and everyone will think I've gone mad."

"In the fashion world, everyone's crazy." Neil seized her by her shoulders and kissed her enthusiastically on the forehead. "Even more so here."

She signed her hire papers three minutes later; twenty minutes after that she stood on a runway, modelling in a set of bright purple dress robes, wearing heels and her face made up perfectly. Neil was practically squealing with excitement; Blaise was working in the studio next door, but there was a big glass window, and he winked at her.

"Now, we have to think of a name for you before we can shoot," said Neil. "A lot of the models feel like they can be more free with their work if they feel like their work and their real lives are separate. So leave behind Astoria Greengrass. Let's think of a new name for you. Is there a nickname you have for yourself?"

She thought about telling him that she was Story, but that was her real name. "Will Toria work?" she asked him."My sister calls me Torrie, so that won't work."

"Toria. Fantastic, honey. Now what I want you to do is walk slowly to the right."

She complied. The photographer snapped a few pictures as she walked to the right, then swiveled around when she reached the wall and walked back to the center.

"Oh, my God, you're a natural. You walk like you're floating. And your hips are divine. Do you have siblings?"

"I have one sister, but she looks nothing like me," answered Story.

"Pout for me, look directly at the camera, honey. You're beautiful." Neil nodded approvingly, then waved at the photographer. "Excellent. That's all I needed you to do today. How much are we paying you?"

"I don't know," said Story.

Neil whirled around and raced over to the doorway of Blaise's studio. "Blaze, darling, how much do we pay you?"

"Forty Galleons a shoot," said Blaise's muffled voice.

"Okay. Toria, sweetie, we'll start your salary at twenty Gals a day. That sound good to you?"

"Fantastic, actually," said Story, blinking. She hadn't expected the pay to be that good.

"All right. Do you have your own Gringotts account?"

"No, but I need Blaise to take me home anyway, he can drop me by Gringotts to set up an account, and I'll give you the information when I can."

"Swell. Blaze, you're done for the day, too. Take Toria by the bank, will you?"

"Sure thing, Neil," drawled Blaise, stepping out of the studio. "Let's get changed and go, Toria, we don't want angry owls from your parents."

"I feel like we're cradle-robbing. Are we cradle-robbing?" asked Neil, his voice playful and mocking.

"Yes, we are," said Blaise, smiling. "She's a baby, Neil, look at her."

"I'm not a baby," said Story, but she couldn't maintain much dignity when two gay men were laughing at each other more than her. Before she went to change, Neil handed her a bag heavy with gold coins, twenty Galleons. She had never had this much of her own money at a time before.

As they left, she asked Blaise, "Do you like him?"

"He's dead sexy, sweetie, but he's my boss," said Blaise, his voice wistful. "I've thought about it... a lot... but the guy I'm seeing right now is super protective. He wouldn't like it."

"I think he likes you."

"I know he likes me," said Blaise mournfully, "and that's what makes it worse."

They went to Gringotts first; Story made an account and deposited nineteen of her twenty Galleons, tucking the last one into her pocket to keep for spending. Blaise took her home; her parents yelled at her for a little bit for going out without permission but acquiesced when they learned she was making twenty Galleons per photo shoot. Daphne was jealous.

"And here I thought you could only get into the fashion business if you slept with the hiring manager," she commented.

"I didn't have to," answered Story. "He's gay. There are quite a lot of gay people there." She was about to add "Including Blaise" when she remembered that that information was not meant to be revealed.

Daphne looked shocked. "Really?"

"Really. The hiring manager told me that he wanted to steal the shoes I was wearing for the shoot and take them when he went out clubbing." It was true. Neil might have moaned a little over the shoes.

"Wow," said Daphne jealously. "Your makeup is brilliant, by the way."

"Oh, thanks." Story nearly touched her face before remembering that you didn't touch your face when you wore makeup. "I should take that off." She cleaned it off with her wand.

"How are you getting to work?" asked Daphne. "You don't have your Apparition license, do you?"

Story shook her head. "Blaise will come and get me every day," she explained. They had settled this on the way in. "He's been very nice to me today. I'm grateful."

"Are you... together?" said Daphne. "Scarlett said he was being kind of touchy-feely-"

"No," said Story. "He never used to be that affectionate, either. Don't know what got into him today." _And tell Scarlett I don't like him that way. He's a friend who's helped me get a great job._

But she didn't say that- there were so many things she never said, and her mind was bursting with things to say. She couldn't say them to Daphne, or Blaise, or Neil. So she curled in on herself again and kept it quiet and simple, a model in behavior as well as by profession.


	8. Chapter 7: Beautiful

Chapter Seven: Beautiful

"I saw your pretty face in the _Prophet_, darlin'," said Eogan, settling on a rock just out of range of the Whomping Willow.

Story closed her book, stroked the Willow good-bye, and clambered out from under the waving tendrils of the tree. "Really? Which one, the quarter-page spread or the eighth-page spread?"

"You have half a page," said Eogan, removing a clip of newspaper and handing it to her. Story unfolded it and studied herself. She remembered this shoot; it had been late August, the day before school started, and Neil had been frantic to get a bunch of separate shoots in so that he could stagger their release until the first Hogsmeade weekend, when she would shoot several more. She had worn a set of olive-green dress robes that she particularly liked; Neil had let her keep them. "I know true love when I see it," he had joked. But the picture was black and white, in the _Prophet_. And off to the right, where she wasn't doing the model stand, looking off into the distance and back, a fine script read "Gladrags' Wizardwear: Fashionable Garments For All Ages." She looked very graceful, almost beautiful, dancing around the photograph.

"Wow," she said, handing him the clip. "I guess I'm doubly famous now."

He looked at her, then away. His hair was getting long, reddish-brown, curling over the nape of his neck. A flyaway leaf caught in it, and she picked it out and released it on the wind again.

"Thank you," he said.

"You're welcome." She watched him as he sat next to her, staring off into the Forbidden Forest. She had been pleasantly surprised to discover that Eogan was quieter about flirting with her when they were alone. He was only obnoxious about it in public. He was really very handsome. She wouldn't mind if he liked her.

And now he was looking at her- she had been caught staring too long.

"You're prettier in person, though," he said, smiling; a hint of the roguish returned to his blue-grey eyes. "A right fair beauty, Astoria Greengrass, make no mistake."

She smiled back at him, then shivered as a crisp autumn breeze blew down the hillside towards them. She hadn't brought robes out- it had been high noon and much warmer when she had come outside originally, but now it was closer to evening.

Eogan moved closer to her and tentatively placed an arm around her shoulders. He was very warm. Story huddled into him.

"Astoria," he said eventually, "I like you a lot." The words were natural, no stumbling, as with Nott. "Would you mind terribly if I were to kiss you?"

For a moment she thought inexplicably of a pale-blond head and warm, yet tired gray eyes. Then she shook herself, because that was just an idle daydream, and one that had gotten her in trouble before, as well.

"I wouldn't mind," she said shyly.

Eogan gently took her face with his hands and kissed her, so very softly. It was like a whisper on her lips.

And it was lovely, kissing. Story kissed him back, because it was lovely and Eogan was familiar and right and he felt nice, warm against the autumn chill. His breathing was unsteady and Astoria let him catch his breath before they kissed again.

"I know you'll be modelin' for the masses," said Eogan, as they walked back up to the castle, hand in hand, "an' I know that after this year I won't be seein' you so much- but would you be willin' to consider bein' my girl?"

"I don't need to consider, a perfect gentleman as you are," Story told him. "Nice of you to ask, but I won't need a time of reflection. I'm glad to be your girl."

Professor McGonagall met them at the door; she said nothing, but Story could have sworn that she saw the older woman stare warningly at Eogan, in an almost... maternal... way.

"Astoria," said Blaise, on the Hogsmeade weekend when she had walked up to the village and met him there to Disapparate to Leeds to shoot the winter catalogue, "you've clearly had something happen to you. A good thing."

"I have a boyfriend," said Story. "His name is Eogan. He's lovely."

"Is he attractive?" inquired Blaise.

"Yes, but he's taken, so don't you go getting any ideas," said Story severely. Blaise howled with laughter, and they went to Leeds for the shoot.

While they were there- for Neil had paired them to work together on the winter cloaks, Blaise modeling the men's cloaks and she the women's cloaks- Story noted that Blaise was staring even more longingly than usual at Neil, and that Neil was trying not to look at Blaise as much as he could.

"What happened?" she whispered to Blaise.

"I broke up with my boyfriend, and then Neil went and got himself one," was the mournful answer. "True love escapes me, for now."

"_Is_ it true love?"

"Heavens, no," said Blaise, chuckling. "True love. Where did you get such an archaic idea? True love doesn't exist."

"I don't believe you," said Story resolutely. "It has to exist for some people."

"Maybe for some," allowed Blaise. "Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger are making it into the tabs these days, and they're engaged on a long-term basis. They might have true love. Merlin knows the rest of us saw it coming." He rolled his eyes. "And Potter and the Weasley girl- that's been coming since she was a brat. But I don't believe in true love, not when you live the way we do."

Story said nothing, although the warm-tired-grey-eyes flashed before her mind's eye again. It should have been Eogan's face, but she wasn't very good at lying to herself about those sorts of things.

"True love is when you love someone's personality, not just their looks," she suggested to Blaise.

"Listen to the girl," he snorted. "You're incredibly naive, Toria- when you see someone attractive, you think they're attractive for a reason. Then you get to know them, and if they're worth it they stay good-looking, and if they aren't, they just become ugly to you."

"I guess so," admitted Story. That was how she felt about Nott.

"But it doesn't matter. You'll learn. When this boy breaks your heart, you'll learn."

"He won't break my heart."

"A gentleman, then? Scottish, French, or Italian? Most of the other sorts aren't."

"An Irishman," said Story, "and yes, a gentleman."

Blaise threw back his head and laughed; the photographer snapped frantically. "You never fail to make me laugh with your naivete and charm, Toria."

Story smiled. Blaise didn't offend her. Eogan had asked before he had kissed her, after all. He wouldn't have done that if he weren't a gentleman.

She did love Eogan, in a way. He was a very nice boy. But he had never given her the queer feeling of butterflies in her stomach that she felt when she thought of warm-tired-grey-eyes.

When the main article appeared about her, not a front-page article but a prominent one, written by Rita Skeeter after a brief interview at Leeds in January, Story became even more famous. This was partially because the interview was accompanied by a full-page spread with her name on it: "Toria Greengrass: The Face of Gladrags Wizardwear." People whispered and pointed to her in the halls. "Look, it's Astoria Greengrass. She models for Gladrags."

Other whispers were less pleasant; she endured some harassment from the boys in her classes. Eogan had elected to take his O.W.L. year over again, so he was her age, a few months older, even, but he wasn't around to keep them from bullying her about how pretty she was, did she model in the common room ever, could they have her autograph, would she sign their- and that was the point at which she would stand up, in the middle of class, absolutely silently, and walk to an empty seat elsewhere in the classroom. The teacher would stare at her; sometimes they would take off points. Story didn't complain.

The worst time was when she was on a date with Eogan at the Three Broomsticks; it wasn't a Hogsmeade day but Professor Randall, the new Slytherin Head of House, had granted her and Eogan permission to go on an excursion, as they were model students, Eogan was a prefect, and Story had a job on Hogsmeade days. They had been eating and laughing and talking, and some of the men at the bar had been tipsy and had caught sight of her. "Hey! It's the girl from Gladrags! Ditch the mick and let us buy you a drink!" She felt herself flushing with shame, feeling dirty under their lewd stares and laughter.

Eogan had stood up before she could stop him, his face red and angry. But Madam Rosmerta had intervened. "OUT!" she had snapped at the drunks. "Not in my pub, you sodding tosspots!" And with a wave of her wand they had been thrown out the door in a drunken heap.

"So sorry," said Madam Rosmerta apologetically. "Silly fools. You won't be bothered here, Astoria. I don't forget the Battle of Hogwarts."

"Thank you," said Story. She had been more embarrassed at the slur on Eogan than on their attempt to pick her up.

Eogan had sat down slowly, and had been in a bad mood until Story dragged him out of the Three Broomsticks to go to Honeydukes. She bought him chocolate; he laughed and joked that he ought to be buying her chocolate, but she laughed back at him and informed him that her job required that she not eat chocolate.

"I don't even like chocolate," she told him honestly. "I prefer caramel and toffee, to be perfectly honest."

"Sweet as sugar, just like you, darlin'," he had said, and then kissed her right there in the shop, surrounded by tons of other wizards, who had clapped and hooted their approval at the young couple.

That was what they were, a couple. Story knew they were a couple; she liked spending time with Eogan, and the kissing was fun. But she never felt the butterflies with him, the way she did when she thought of- and there she refused to let herself think, because if she thought any further along that line, it would be as good as cheating on Eogan. He didn't deserve that from her. He didn't deserve that from anyone. He was sweet and kind and the best friend she had ever had in her life.


	9. Chapter 8: Kindness

Chapter Eight: Kindness

She went with Blaise to look at flats. She had enough saved up to rent a place in London, a place of her own. She loved Oxford, but she was also eager to move out and find her own place. Eogan had another year in Hogwarts, and then, hopefully, he could get a flat nearby. She hoped so, anyway.

She would have accepted the first listing they had looked at, but Blaise had said no very firmly to the Muggle landlord and dragged her out.

"That place was fine," she protested.

"The flat itself was not objectionable," said Blaise dryly. "The landlord was skeezy, and there's a bar across the street. You can do better, darling."

After a few days of looking, Blaise called to tell her exultantly that the flat on the floor above his had been put up for sale. The Muggle lady putting it up for sale was old, with a lot of creepy dolls and china knick-knacks being packed into boxes. Story suspected Blaise of Confunding the woman and telling her to move elsewhere, but the flat had a very reasonable rent and was already furnished. She signed a year's agreement and paid the down payment. She moved in the next day.

"Now we're neighbors," said Blaise, "and we can go to work together." He sounded extremely self-satisfied.

She visited home the first weekend; Daphne, Pansy, and Scarlett were having drinks and a chat. She didn't stay long, because Pansy was giving her coat the eye she had used to cast lustfully on Draco, and Scarlett was beaming hatred at her, and Daphne looked extremely uncomfortable.

"I moved into the apartment above Blaise's," she said casually. "He was very nice about helping me move in. He had a girl over for dinner the other night, but he doesn't really like her." A lie, but a necessary one, if she was to be on decent terms with Scarlett.

"Of course not," said Scarlett, and the hatred was still there, but now Story was confused, because the next words from her mouth were, "He's gay, didn't you know?"

"I did," said Story composedly. "I didn't know you three knew, and the first time he told me he asked me not to tell."

"I've known he was gay since sixth year," said Scarlett scornfully.

Pansy shrugged.

"He's gay?" said Daphne.

And that, thought Story, summed up the three of them rather well.

There was another confusing question then; why didn't Scarlett like her? She didn't think about it very much- Scarlett Lympsham wasn't a particularly important person to her- but she did worry about it, because she was fairly sure she was supposed to have done something in order to be hated for it. She hadn't done anything worth being hated for, had she? Saved a bunch of younger kids in Slytherin House. Set up an infirmary. Become a part-time, then a full-time model. Gotten a boyfriend. Moved in a floor above Blaise Zabini.

No, she couldn't have done anything. The question to really ask was this: what did Scarlet delude herself into _believing_ Story had done? That was a more complicated question.

She asked Blaise about it one night, when she went down and they ordered Chinese food with the cellular telephone Blaise had bought, on a whim. It looked like a large black brick, with an antenna sticking out of the top like a unicorn's horn. She was slightly fascinated by the Muggle technology. Blaise had been a Slytherin at Hogwarts, but living in London, he had told her, had showed him that Muggles didn't have it all on the thin end of the wand. They had science that made up for their lack of magic, cars and aeroplanes and cellular phones.

"Why doesn't Scarlett like me?" she asked.

He laughed. "She's jealous of you, Toria. She knows you're prettier. Has she been bothering you about it? Scarlett's always been a bitch."

"But Scarlett is drop-dead gorgeous," said Story, frowning. "Crabbe and Goyle both asked her to the Yule Ball and she turned them down, and I know that Pucey, Flint, Bletchley, Warrington, and Montague have all asked her out."

"That was in the Hogwarts days," said Blaise, patting her hand condescendingly. "She's nineteen now, and while she's still a cute little thing, she's a complete bitch, and that carries over into her face. You're like a five-year-old child, still wondering why the world is so beautiful, and that carries over into your face. That's why people like you more. You're nice. She's not."

"But she's pretty!"

"So are you. You really are both beautiful. The difference is that you're beautiful on the outside and the inside. Scarlett is only beautiful on the outside. She has a horrid personality. And that makes you twice as beautiful- people see you and they see the little angel you are inside."

"I'm no angel." Story thought of her annoyances with Pansy and Scarlett, her anger at Nott, her brusque refusals of his attentions, the way she thought of another pair of eyes when she kissed Eogan. "I'm not a good person."

"Nobody's perfect," said Blaise. "But you're so much better than the rest of us, Astoria Greengrass. You have this innate sense of perfection that the mortals around you are in something of awe of. Including your sister and Pansy, because they're a pair of brainless twits."

"Hey!" protested Story. "That's my sister."  
"Well, Daphne isn't so bad. Pansy is very stupid, however. But Scarlett's not an idiot, although she has an incredibly stupid attachment to Pansy, and she sees that you're prettier and smarter and sweeter than everyone else, and she hates you for it."

"Should I apologize or something?"

"She'll only hate you more if you do," said Blaise. "Better to leave well enough alone, sweetie. You can only be so perfect." She threw a pillow at him. In some ways, Blaise was like the brother she'd never had. She doubted that a boy of the Greengrass stock would ever turn out gay, though- her parents were ridiculously conservative. They didn't approve of Blaise and his transparently obvious homosexuality, although they were perfectly civil to him. They would have disliked him more, Story reflected, if he had been sleeping with her. Or maybe they wouldn't. You never knew with her parents.

She didn't buy a bed for her flat- that was the only thing it didn't have. The Muggle woman had had back problems and her bed was specially made, so she had taken it with her. Instead, she drilled holes into the ceiling with her wand and managed to rig up a hammock. It was for more comfortable than a bed- colder, but more comfortable. She would get a bed, maybe, when Eogan was done with school. She didn't know.

She went to work every day and did seven, eight shoots a day, with different outfits and makeup, depending on what Gladrags was advertising. Soon she was the lead model, making even more than Blaise. She tucked it all away into Gringotts, only removing what she needed to survive in Muggle cash.

She visited Eogan on Hogsmeade weekends; they went to the tea shop or the Three Broomsticks or occasionally the Hog's Head, and then they would wander around the shops, holding hands and grinning like the foolish children they were. He would tease her mercilessly, and she would laugh and smile and he would kiss her and they were the only people of any importance. On their one-year-anniversary he skipped classes and sneaked down to Hogsmeade and she skipped work and they went to the precipice where people looked at the Shrieking Shack, and they just sat there for hours and talked. He told her that he had a job lined up with Flourish and Blotts, so he would be living in London when he graduated. They kissed- made out, really. Eogan was too polite to try and deflower her on a chilly autumn day out-of-doors, where anybody could see them, but she knew he wanted to. She avoided that topic. The time wasn't right.

It became more common to open the _Daily Prophet_, delivered every morning by owl, and see her face or her body, modeling the newest fashions, as she walked up and down the little studio, joking with Blaise and Neil, trying to figure out how to get them to get together. Sometimes she saw herself staring out at the world from the Gladrags catalogue. In January she made the cover for the spring fashions; she stood still on that glossy magazine cover, her face long but not horsey, her arms long and thin, her legs longer and thinner, her waist a healthy sort of thin, her feet encased in high heels.

After that people began to recognize her in the streets. Not the Muggles, of course, although she got wolf-whistled at a lot by them. But she would walk into Diagon Alley, looking for ingredients for a Headache Potion or something to buy for her cousin's birthday at the Weasley shop, and people pointed and stared. A few times, a little girl would trot shyly up to her, holding the spring catalogue and a quill, and Story, surprised every time, would sign: "Toria Greengrass. Follow your dreams!"

That's who she was at work. Toria Greengrass. To most people she knew in person she was Astoria. As a model she was Toria. To Daphne she was Torrie. And to herself, Story. She had told noone about her private name for herself, not even Eogan.

One day she was walking to one of the five different places she Disapparated to work from, and she noticed, out of the back of her eye, that some Muggle boys were following her. Skipping school probably- they looked about her age. Story knew that Muggles went to school for longer than wizards did. She ignored them.

At least, she ignored them until she turned into the abandoned alleyway where she Disapparated from on Thursday mornings and they followed her in. She stood waiting, ignoring them as they approached.

"Hey," said one of them. "What's your name?"

She wrinkled her nose. "Piss off."

"Oh, don't be like that, baby-"

She had to do something, or they would hurt her. She could see that intent in their eyes. She drew her wand and cast several spells in silence, sealing off both ends of the alleyway and causing instant darkness to descend over the alley. She could see though, and as she did she cast a spell on the boys that made them unable to hear her, and then she cast a Memory Charm on the lot of them and removed all of the other spells at the same time she Disapparated.

She was a little shaken when she arrived at work; Blaise arrived a few moments after she did. "We really have to find a better place to Disapparate from," he said easily, catching up. "If the Muggle boys are going to bother you, that is."

"You could always scare them away," said Story shortly. She wasn't in a good mood.

Blaise snorted. "There were five of them, sweetie. I don't think that would have been enough. We should Disapparate from Diagon Alley from now on."

Story sighed. She didn't want to admit that she didn't really like London anymore. The novelty had worn off from living in the big city. She didn't want to move back home, either. She thought the country would have been nice, though- closer north to Leeds, perhaps, or maybe south in Devonshire. But she couldn't just go and buy a house. She had plenty of money, but she didn't have that much money.

The _Daily Prophet_ the next morning featured an article on the Malfoys and what they had been up to since the war. Story read it over breakfast with curiosity. Lucius and Narcissa were on house arrest- Aurors would show up if they so much as passed the gates of Malfoy Manor, and an Anti-Apparition Jinx had been cast over the entire property. Draco was free to come and go as he pleased, because he had given testimony against the Death Eaters and the Dark Lord in the Wizengamot. He was in Europe at the moment- nobody had seen him for two and a half years.

She set the paper down and sighed. She really had to stop daydreaming about him. She was in a committed relationship with a boy who adored her and whom she adored in return. Sort of.


	10. Chapter 9: Sentence

Chapter Nine: Sentence

"Nott's been asking about you," said Blaise one day, as they strolled outside for their lunch break.

Story had to take a deep breath before she could calmly speak. "I thought he was in Azkaban?"

"He and Goyle were released early for pleading guilty and for good behavior," said Blaise. "He wanted to know if I knew what you've been up to- evidently Daphne doesn't tell him where you live, and he knows we work together."

"Daphne doesn't know where I live," said Story. "None of my family's ever been to the flat. I visit them." She sat down on a large, smooth rock and opened her bag lunch. Blaise joined her.

"Do you want me to tell him?" asked Blaise.

"You may tell him I live in London, but please don't give him my address," said Story. "Please also mention that I have a big, muscular, protective boyfriend who lives close to my apartment."

Blaise chuckled. "Will do. Also, have I mentioned that your boyfriend is dreamy?"

"Yes, you have. Far more than I've wanted to hear about." Story had introduced Blaise and Eogan one evening when she had Eogan over for dinner in her flat. Ever since, Blaise had brought to her attention the fact that "your boyfriend is hot/cute/attractive/other variations on the sentiment of good-looking" every time she had spoken with him since then.

"Is he cuter than Neil?" she asked him.

"Nobody is cuter than Neil," said Blaise.

"I'm glad you think so," said Neil, sitting down and joining them. Blaise flushed. Story was internally delighted. "I am pretty cute, aren't I, Toria?"

"Absolutely adorable," said Story. "You're both cute." She took a bite of her sandwich. "But not available, which is fine by me. I'm happy with Eogan."

"Bring him by some time," said Neil lazily. "We need a new male model."

"Blaise is much better-looking," said Story. "And anyway, Eogan has a job. He works in Flourish and Blotts. Tall, dark-ginger curls, wicked smile. My property." She was still a little unsettled by the fact that she could discuss boys with Blaise and Neil, but she was getting used to it.

"Duly noted," said Neil. "Can I look at him?"

"Eyes above the waist," said Story, and they all laughed.

That night when she and Blaise got home, a familiar figure stood waiting outside the building, arms crossed, eyes hooded. They both stopped and looked at Theodore Nott, who pushed himself from the wall and came over to them.

"Hello," he said, and Story could hear the roughness of three years of Azkaban on his voice. He had grown a beard, and his hair was long, but he was clean, and he wore acceptably clean clothes. "Blaise, Astoria. Mind if I come in?"

"Whose apartment?" said Blaise. "It's good to see you, Nott- three years is a long time."

Story said nothing. She could feel a slight edge of fear, a sense of danger, coloring her very mixed emotions. She looked at Theodore Nott and his glittering dark-green eyes, at the cruelty in his face, and her body told her to run, get the hell away, find Eogan and hide from this man.

"You have separate apartments?" said Nott, his voice surprised. "I thought you were flatmates."

"Er," said Blaise, glancing at Story.

"I live on the floor above Blaise," said Story, walking past both of them and unlocking the door. "My place is a mess, do you mind, Blaise?"

"Not at all," said Blaise graciously. Story walked up the stairs faster than both of them- she knew Blaise was walking a little slower than normal, to give her more time, and she was grateful.

She sat down on her couch and closed her eyes, burying her head in her hands and breathing slowly. Nott was back. Once upon a time he had been Theo, and then she had seen that he had wanted to hurt people, to kill them, and then she could not think of him that way.

She opened her fridge and took out a bottle of firewhiskey. She had it there for the very few occasions when Eogan was over and they could both afford to get a little bit tipsy- but never drunk. Story never let herself get drunk. She poured a small amount into a shot glass and swallowed the whole thing; it gave her fortitude, as the cold-yet-warm liquid burned her throat. She closed the bottle and replaced it in the fridge, then changed from her sweater and skirt into a T-shirt, jeans, and a clean set of robes. She cleaned the makeup off her face and brushed her teeth, so that they couldn't smell the alcohol on her breath, or at least not much of it, and she padded downstairs to Blaise's flat.

Nott sat on the couch, his long, clever fingers toying with his wand. Blaise was throwing together a meal. Neither of them were talking. Story took the chair, even though Nott was pointedly sitting to one side on the couch, leaving room for her. She forced her jittering nerves to calm down and smiled politely at Nott. "How are you?"

"Oh, I'm all right," said Nott. "It's been a long three years. Nothing I couldn't handle." He smiled cynically. "You've kept busy though- I've seen you in the papers a lot. Beautiful, as usual."

"Oh," said Story. "Thank you."

There was a long pause, and then someone knocked at the door. "Astoria? You in there? I knocked on your door but nobody was there-"

It was Eogan. Story felt a huge sense of relief flood her gut and she went to the door and opened it. Eogan stood there, smiling. She hugged him and breathed in his new-book, crisp-parchment, dry-ink smell, then kissed him and led him into Blaise's flat.

"Oh, hello, Southers," said Blaise, friendly. "Nott, this is Southers. He's with Toria."

There was a pause as Eogan and Nott looked each other up and down. Story had told Eogan about Nott and his attentions to her. Eogan was not inclined to like Nott, but he merely nodded. Story had Eogan sit in the chair, and she perched on the arm of it until Blaise protested that she was wrecking his furniture, and Eogan laughingly pulled her onto his lap.

"How long have you been together?" said Nott, his tone not angry or jealous, just mildly curious.

"Two years, more or less," said Eogan. One of his hands found hers and she smiled at him.

Nott nodded. "Are you living together?" he inquired.

"No," said Story, "though we've considered it." She curled closer to Eogan. The closer she was to him, the safer she was.

He held her tightly as well, tighter than usual. Story wondered if he was jealous of Nott, or if he just wanted to rub it into Nott's face. That would be like Eogan.

Nott didn't stay very long after they ate the casserole Blaise had made. He merely hugged both Blaise and Story, not the way he had used to hug her, and he shook hands with Eogan, and then he left.

"That was sufficiently awkward, wasn't it?" said Eogan with a chuckle.

"Quite so," agreed Blaise. "If I'm not mistaken, he appears to be quite cut up that you aren't available, Toria."

Story rolled her eyes. "I've told you lot it's never been like that. He's just a friend. A misguided, slightly psychotic friend, but a friend nonetheless."

"You sure can pick 'em," said Eogan, snickering; she smacked him on the arm.

"I'm expecting company," said Blaise, "so head on up to your hutch, little rabbits."

Eogan held her hand very tightly as they walked upstairs; when the door was closed behind them, he said quietly, "I want to talk to you about somethin'."

"What's that?" she asked him, as they sat on the couch. He didn't immediately pull her close; he just sighed and stared at the ground, wringing his hands.

"I didn't go into work today," he said eventually. "I had an appointment at St. Mungo's. I've told you about the migraines, yeah? They won't go away, no matter how many Headache Potions I take."

She nodded.

"It's cancer," said Eogan softly.

"Well, that's fixable, isn't it?" she asked him. "Just a couple of appointments, they shrink it and remove all the bad bits?"

He shook his head. "It's on my brain," he said. "It's gotten so it's pressin' on my skull an' brain. It's been there since I was a lad, apparently. If they try to shrink it or Vanish it now, the extra space in my skull will fill up with water an' I'll die by- by drownin'." He shuddered.

And then she understood. "And if they do nothing-"

"I'll die a more natural death, but I'll be gone by June anyway," said Eogan hoarsely, looking up at her.

There was a horrible aching in her chest. She loved Eogan, and he was going to die.

"You don't have to be with me, if you don't want to," he said. "You can find someone healthy, someone who'll love you an' can take care of you-"

"Nonsense," said Story briskly. "I'll take care of _you_, silly. We'll start by having you move in here."

"They also told me," he said, before she could continue, "that part of the tumor is close to some of my major veins, in the back here." He touched the side of his neck. "If we do anythin'... that gets my heart rate up too much, it could burst the tumor an' I would die anyway."

Story nodded, and she felt an inexplicable sense of relief. They would probably share the bed, because Eogan had a bed, but they wouldn't have sex. She hadn't been sure if she wanted to lose her virginity to Eogan or not.

He was crying softly. She gathered him into her arms.

"You're going to be fine," she whispered. "I've got you, dear. I love you."

"I won't be fine," he said, "but I'll love you always."

She couldn't cry. There was just this horrible aching in her chest, and she would miss him horribly when he was gone.

He moved in the next day. She was warm at night in a real bed with Eogan curled next to her, although they didn't do anything. He had given her permission to tell Blaise and she did. She did cry when she told Blaise; he hugged her and held her and informed her that everything would be all right.

When Eogan moved into her apartment, they began making the tabloids, as they appeared going out of the apartment to Disapparate to work, or in a cafe drinking coffee. Rita Skeeter generally wrote the good things- surprising, considering how Rita Skeeter's job was generally to make the lives of the famous miserable- and a few nasty things appeared, written naturally by Pansy Parkinson. She began getting owls and Floos about interviews; she initially turned them all down. She didn't want to talk about anything.

But then came the one article that wrecked her resolve to remain a private individual; a nasty letter was sent into the gossip column and published in its entirety, claiming that Astoria Greengrass was involved sexually with Eogan Southers, Blaise Zabini, and Theodore Nott- all at the same time. The letter was anonymous, but Story knew one person who disliked her enough to write something like that: Scarlett Lympsham. She wrote a return letter to the Daily Prophet, calmly worded but crisp, so that they would understand her point: her sexual life was her business; Theodore Nott was an old acquaintance (but not a friend); Blaise Zabini was a business associate (but not gay); and yes, she was in a relationship with Eogan Southers, one of a romantic nature, but they were to redact the article and letter or she, Astoria Greengrass, would sue. And lately, what with the photo shoots and more or less becoming the pinup model of the Wizarding world, she had plenty of money to do it with. She even swallowed her pride and wrote a letter to Hermione Granger, who had a great deal of influence with the solicitors in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Granger was quite nice about it, informing her that she would be perfectly in the right to sue. She suspected that Granger, despite the fact that she had been two years older, much more intelligent, and in possession of a more straightforward code of morality, would have been very willing to be her friend. The Weasley girl, too, perhaps. She admired Ginny Weasley for her incredible courage and devotion to those she loved.

But it was very stressful, the slander, the gossip, the speculation, the hate mail and the fan mail alike. She began to lose weight. Neil was pleased at first- models were thin, after all, and cooking with Eogan meant hearty Irish dinners. Then the weight loss increased. She was tired, irritable, annoyed. She didn't visit her family on the weekends, and only talked to Blaise at work. She spent her work hours working and her free hours with Eogan. He didn't have that much time. She owed it to him.

In February she woke one morning to his panicked hands shaking her, telling her that he couldn't see anything. She tested him as thoroughly as she could before Apparating with him to St. Mungo's to have them check. The tumor had expanded to the part of his brain that processed images, evidently; his eyes were working perfectly, but his brain did not see, and therefore he did not see.

They discussed the future that night. Eogan would quit his job. He would stay at home while Story worked. If they went anywhere in public, he would wear sunglasses. They would preserve their secrets as long as they could. Slytherins did that.

She lost more weight, and was glad that Eogan couldn't see her. She looked like a skeleton. One morning she brushed her hair and a clump of it fell out. She reattached it with magic, but something like fear fluttered in her heart, that maybe Eogan's death would kill her too. But she did not let that fear do more than flutter. She left it alone, to sit and quietly die.

The secret was not kept for long. Blaise knew, of course; she couldn't keep secrets about Eogan from Blaise, not when he was the best friend she had at this point and not when he lived a floor below them and worked with her on a daily basis. One evening in April she and Eogan were walking in Diagon Alley; she was pretending to hold onto his arm, but she was really guiding him around obstacles. A few reporters and photographers followed them; generally, Story liked to ignore the reporters and ask the photographers what kinds of cameras were they using, and what enchantments did they use. This infuriated the reporters- they were supposed to ask the questions, and the photographers responded eagerly, knowing that Story was a photography buff and was interested in their cameras.

But then Rita Skeeter came walking up, and she made a nasty innuendo in her sugary-sweet voice, her blonde curls pinned so tightly to her head that she looked like a shower puff, and Eogan had snarled something at her, losing his temper. Astoria forced herself to forget the exact words, because she tried as a general rule to keep herself from reliving painful memories. But the woman had moved while he was speaking, and he had kept shouting at the same spot, and everyone had stared, and Story had gripped his arm tightly, whispered his mistake, and they had Disapparated back to the flat. That night, she wrote an official statement and owled it to the _Daily Prophet. _

They didn't use it, although they apologized, informing her that her owl had been lost among the others. Rita Skeeter's story claimed that Eogan Southers had gone blind due to an injury he had sustained during the battle of Hogwarts, and that this injury had apparently also affected his vitality, and that was why he and Story were not sleeping together, although they shared an apartment. Story sent in another official statement, with Eogan's permission, explaining the real reason, that he was dying, that he had cancer, and even that they couldn't have sex because it might possibly kill him. She couldn't, of course, resist the little bit of snark at the end where she added that "readers who take Ms. Skeeter's assumptions, most of which are made by her Quick-Quotes-Quill and her own perverted imagination, seriously are likely to be equally hoodwinked by the claims of former Death Eaters as Merlin's own pureblooded descendants- didn't Dumbledore himself claim that there are no wizards of perfectly pure blood left in the world?"

The letters she got for that were staggering- she didn't read them all, but she very much appreciated the ones from her parents, scolding her for being so rude to Ms. Skeeter, and the one from Daphne, laughing at her; her very favorite was the one from Bill Weasley. It was a note hastily scribbled on parchment, but it read "_Glad to see someone's put the hag in her place. If you ever need a favor, owl me. I owe you for the laugh. -W. Weasley, Shell Cottage, Dorcester_." She hung that one on the fridge with a Sticking Charm.

In May she requested an indefinite leave of absence. Neil had her shoot several months work of photos in as many days, and then he allowed it. She stayed home with Eogan. They listened to Celestina Warbeck, whom they both hated, and the Weird Sisters, who Eogan liked and Astoria didn't. They made pancakes for every meal and took naps on the couch. Sometimes when Eogan slept she slipped into the bathroom and stared out the window and the Muggles passing below. They didn't know, that her world was coming apart at the seams. They didn't know, they couldn't know. She envied them for it. But they had worlds of their own, too. Some of them had to know what it was like- what it was like to have everything you had ever thought to be true taken away, to be told that no matter how clever you were, how pretty, how kind, bad things would happen to you. Even if you were a good person, bad things would happen.


	11. Chapter 10: Second Brother

Chapter Ten: "And So Death Claimed The Second Brother For His Own"

She had never held much stock in the Tale of the Three Brothers as truth, not even after the Battle of Hogwarts, when Potter proved that the Elder Wand, at least, existed- but she was inclined to think that the three most important men in her life strongly resembled the Brothers.

She gazed down at the corpse that had once been Eogan, laying on a slab in the heart of the Ministry Offices. The body showed signs of a struggle, but there hadn't been much of one. Eogan was weak, with his illness. He was slower than he used to be; there had been a moment the other day when she spoke to him and he asked who she was, then promptly remembered before she had had time even to blink. He hadn't had time to react to whomever it was who had crept into her flat, somehow disabling the Intruder Charms and the Anti-Apparition Jinx that was modified to allow only herself, Eogan, and Blaise to Apparate directly into the apartment. He hadn't had time to fight as he was stabbed viciously, over and over, in the heart mostly, killing him in the first blow and then done afterwards probably for some sort of vengeance.

She stared at the body without showing any sign of emotion. The killer had also gouged Eogan's already-sightless eyes from his head. The eyes had been found ground into the side of the bed that was Eogan's, whereas his body had been on the couch. And on the walls of her flat, written in blood, were the words, _she is mine, she has always been mine, too bright for you to see, you were blinded by her beauty._

"I just-" Harry Potter stared at her. His eyes were too green, she decided, too sharp. She appreciated that sharpness when he collected himself from his disgust at whomever the murderer was and said, "Do you know anyone who would have had a grudge against your husband? Possibly a romantic interest in you?"

_Yes._ "No," said Story. Her voice was perfectly calm. There was no quaver. No tears. She looked at the body again, oddly grateful that it was mutilated beyond recognition. If she had been able to see any of Eogan in it, it would have been more painful. "There are many men with a romantic interest in me, of that I entertain no doubt, but I don't know of any of them who would do this."

_Lies,_ shrieked her brain. _Lies, Story, you are telling a tale, a Storyteller indeed, you know exactly who has done this and he has said why, so many times, and it was stupid of you not to see it coming, not to protect against him._

"There's little we can do with identification, because there were no magical traces, there were no witnesses and all fluids containing memory were removed. We think that the killer took them with him."

"Why would he do something like that?" asked Story.

Potter swallowed, and glanced around at the other Aurors in the room, his face looking guilty. None of them seemed to want to speak. It was, eventually, Bill Weasley who spoke, even though he was not an Auror. "It was probably for something along the lines of experiencing what your boyfriend had experienced, with you." He cleared his throat. "If the killer has a Pensieve, he can relive memories of your boyfriend with you in them. It may be sexual."

"Assuming that the murderer has a romantic interest in me that would be a sensible hypothesis," said Story. The logic was undeniable. Somewhere the killer was watching, every time she kissed Eogan, every time they held hands or smiled or touched. It did not disturb her. It ought to have disturbed her.

Especially when she was sure she knew who did it.

"Is that all?" she asked the Aurors.

"Yes," said Harry. "We're sorry for your loss, Miss Greengrass."

"Thank you for your condolences," said Story, knowing how cold her voice sounded. Cold was easy.

As she left, Bill Weasley caught up to her. "Are you sure you don't know who it is?" he said, his voice a little harsh. His scars looked livid. Story knew the full moon was close.

"I have no idea who could have done it," said Story blandly, and she left him standing there, staring after her suspiciously.

She took the public exit from the Ministry. People stared at her as she walked through the main hallway; she went up past the Muggles and made her way to a safe point before Disapparating back to her flat.

She found herself the subject of a dozen pointed wands, Aurors in their green-trimmed uniforms examining her flat for further evidence.

"Miss, we're right in the middle of this," said one of them gently.

"I'm sorry," said Story. She blinked, and to her relief she could feel tears starting to come, not for Eogan but at her embarrassment. "I wasn't thinking. I- er-"

"It's okay," one of them interrupted. She knew that voice. Two years older than her, awkward, bumbling- Neville Longbottom. "Perfectly understandable, ma'am. Do you have somewhere else you can stay while we sort this out?"

"She can stay with me," said Blaise, at that moment popping his head in the door. "I live in the flat just below, and I've got a couch."

Story nodded, looking at nobody. If she didn't see anyone's eyes, maybe she wouldn't cry.

"May I get some things from my room?" she said quietly.

"Certainly, if you'll allow an Auror to supervise you," said Longbottom. "We can't let you take anything without our knowledge. Would you prefer a female Auror?"

"It doesn't matter," she said brusquely, and strode past the staring Aurors and the tape to enter her bedroom.

She did not look at the bed- she had already seen that, and she didn't want to see it again. She would have nightmares, as it was. She went to the closet, and heard Auror Longbottom, behind her, inhale quietly as she opened it. She pulled out several outfits at random; she could get others from the leftovers at Leeds, and she could probably find something in Blaise's closet in case of an emergency.

She piled the clothes into a satchel, stood up, and turned. Auror Longbottom was purposefully not staring at her or at the open drawer that had been pulled out onto the floor. Story knew that that drawer was her underwear drawer, and she also knew that the contents had been gone through, and the racier pieces stolen by the killer. She ignored the remaining underwear on the floor and left the room.

Blaise made her a cup of chicken broth and himself a sandwich. She sipped at the broth, but it burned her tongue. She did not look at Blaise, though she knew he was looking at her, watchful, wary.

Finally she said, still not looking at him, "Do you have any alcohol?"

"Don't get drunk today, sweetie," said Blaise. "You have a funeral to arrange."

Story dropped her cup of broth on herself; the hot liquid hissed as it soaked through her clothes.

Blaise sighed and dried her off with a wave of his wand, then uttered another spell to heal the burns from the broth. "You heard me," he said, though she had said nothing. "Eogan's mother lives in Australia, and his father's dead, remember? You're here, and you're the closest thing the poor boy has to family."

"I don't-" She shuddered. "I can't-"

"You've done much harder and much worse," said Blaise soberly. "Did your parents ever meet him?"

She nodded. "Mum loved him."

"Ask them to help you," said Blaise. "Call his mum, call your mum before the Daily Prophet makes a mess of it and kills you off instead."

"None of this matters," she said quietly.

Blaise looked at her, then sighed. "What do you know? Clearly there's something on your mind, Toria."

"I know who killed him."

"Yeah, well it's not difficult to figure, is it? Vaguely psychotic wizard, cold-blooded enough to kill but warm-blooded enough to only do it as a crime of passion, one with an unrequited obsession with you-"

"Don't," she said quickly, "don't tell the Aurors."

He went still. "Why the hell not, Toria? What possible reason could you give for protecting that bastard?"

"It's not a reason," said Story. "It's blackmail. I have something I can use against him."

"You can't blackmail him with it unless you've got proof," said Blaise, interested.

She stood up and squared her shoulders. "I'm going to get some."

He stared at her, then laughed. It was mocking. "Clever, do right what he wants you to do in your grief. You really have gone around the bend."

"Blaise, shut up. I went into my room and got some clothes, but I noticed that someone, probably the killed, had gone through my underwear drawer."

"Charming."

"Isn't it just? But I glanced at it, and I've taken enough of the more creative stuff home from work to know that a few of them are missing."

"_Creative stuff_? What would Astoria Virginity Greengrass want with lingerie?"

"It was," said Story, her neck heating up, "taken in preparation for what I hoped would be Eogan and I living together. I never used any of it. And now it's gone. And if I go to-" She stuttered over that name in her mind. "-his place and find it there, then I'll know he did it and I can blackmail him with it."

Blaise shook his head. "You're stark raving mad."

"I know." She sighed. "Help me dress to impress? I want Nott to be distracted, but impressed."

"Slutty business-witch it is," said Blaise. "What did you bring down from the closet? Oh, thank Merlin, this was the outfit of yours I had in mind- but you didn't bring the jacket-"

Story changed into an outfit that Blaise selected. He did her hair and makeup and even painted her nails a dark olive green. Story shivered; the colors matched her dress, but they were almost the color of the killer's eyes. Eyes she knew well, from long, intensely embarrassing stares.

"Reminds me of Hogwarts," commented Blaise, as he finished with her pinky nail. "The same hue as N- his eyes when he was trying to undress you with them."

"Thank you for not saying his name, and the mental images you just gave me aren't helping," said Story. Blaise dried her nails with a flick of his wand. "Thanks for this."

"I'm going to come with you and linger around the corner at the Leaky Cauldron," said Blaise. "Longbottom's girlfriend is the barkeeper and she'll know to contact the Aurors if I tell her you're in trouble."

Story shook her head. "I have to go alone," she said.

"You really are crazy," said Blaise.

"If I don't go alone he'll know," said Story. "He knew how to get into the apartment. He'll know if I bring anyone."

Blaise hesitated. "Send a Patronus if you can," he said eventually, "but if not, then there's this." He handed her a dull bronze chain with a small pendant on it. She examined it. The pendant was a chunk of raw peridot. She put it around her neck; the stone hung just above her breasts like a cross of some kind. "Break it and I'll know and I'll find you."

Story nodded. She took a deep breath. Blaise surveyed her, then nodded. "Slutty business-witch. Not slutty enough to be harassed for streetwalking, but just enough that you look wicked."

"Wickedness is what I'm about to confront," said Story.

She Disapparated.

She and Blaise and Eogan had gone to visit him once; he lived in a tiny, wretchedly ugly flat near the entryway of Diagon Alley. Now she stood in the street, a few buildings away from the Muggle entrance of The Leaky Cauldron, and went to the apartment building.

She pressed the buzzer for his apartment.

"Hello?"

"Theo, it's Astoria. Can I come in?"

There was a pause, and then Nott's voice said eagerly, "Sure."

The door popped open, and she walked in. Her heels, olive green and silver, clicked on the tile as she walked past the office of the Muggle landlord and went upstairs to Nott's flat.

She knocked on his door. He opened it, a grin on his face. "It's great to see you, Astoria! How are you?"

"I've been feeling better," she said, a little grimly. "Eogan's dead."

The shock was very well faked, but she knew he was lying by the lack of tension in his backwards step of shock. "Merlin. Come in. I'll make you a cup of tea."

She went in. The apartment was clean, at least, but it was still squalid. There were only three rooms; a living room with a kitchenette, a bedroom, and a miniscule bathroom. She sat on the sagging couch, breathing quietly, her hand clenched around her wand in the pocket of her trenchcoat. She wished she had thought to bring something like Veritaserum, but those sorts of potions were only issued for and by the Ministry and the Hogwarts staff. She wasn't entirely sure that it was legal, either.

He made her the tea, although he did not have any. He had a glass bottle with some sort of amber liquid in it; drunk before supper, thought Story scornfully, was really not very dignified.

"He was dying," she said, her voice trembling. "Who would have killed him like that? It was horrible, and they think I have something to do with it."

"They think you killed him?" said Nott, his voice dark.

She shook her head. "They know I didn't kill him- I was at work. Someone who's obsessed with me. They wrote about me on the wall- with his blood." She shuddered, and was rewarded by seeing him flinch. "I came to you because Blaise wasn't home and I didn't want to go to Mother's."

He moved to sit next to her on the couch, slinging an arm around her shoulders as she buried her face in her hands and cried real tears. She did not cry for Eogan. She cried for the good person that Theodore Nott was once. Now he was a murderer, and he was probably going to try and take advantage of her in her grief.

"He was already dying," she whispered, her voice heavy with tears. "He was going to be dead by June."

His hand tensed on her back. "What was-"

"I sent a letter to the Prophet," said Story. "Cancer."

_Which you knew._

"I'm so sorry," he murmured.

She looked up at him; the dark-green eyes told her nothing. But suddenly he frowned at her.

"You're wearing makeup."

It was a mistake. She tried to shrug it off impatiently. "I'm a model, Theo, I wear makeup every now and then. It's probably wrecked, damn it."

"Cast a Patronus Charm," he said suddenly.

"What?"

"How do I know you're not some Auror in a Polyjuice, come to question the mysterious friend, fresh from Azkaban, about the sudden death of Eogan Southers?"

He was good- he was very good. But Story knew the truth.

She tried to think of something happy- something happy enough to let her cast a Patronus- but then she thought of Eogan, and his silver pine marten, staunchly defending The Three Broomsticks, and the tears dripped and she couldn't do it.

This had been a stupid idea. She should have just Stunned him the moment he opened the door and used a Memory Charm. She could still do that, but she found that she didn't want to.

She took another sip of tea, and then she realized that there was something off about the tea. She didn't usually have so much sugar.

She sipped again, wondering when Nott would remember that she was immune to Love Potions. She had found this out when she had swallowed one at the age of three. She had suffered no ill side effects from it.

He was staring at her, still frustrated, and then a sudden angry glittering filled the green eyes and he said flatly, "Do you think I killed him, then?"

"Theo! Why would I think such a- _Immobilius_!"

He froze in place.

She stood up, regarded him levelly. "Why would I think such a thing," she repeated, the tears drying on her face as she spoke, "when I already know it?"

There was a long silence. "_Accio_," she said, not willing to say the word _lingerie _in front of Nott.

The offending garments zoomed out from the bedroom. Story caught them without looking and stuffed them into the pockets of her trench coat.

"I'm not telling the Aurors," she said flatly. "I certainly won't stop them if they're led to you. I would find a certain poetic justice in that. But this is a warning, Theodore Nott. You are to forget me. You are to forget I ever existed. If I play some role in your sick fantasies, then I don't care so long as it stays in your life, not mine. If you ever speak to me again, if you ever so much as say hello to me, I will go to the Aurors and tell them what I have found and allow them access to my memory of this. You will go straight back to Azkaban and you will not return. Do you understand me?"

He could not speak or nod, under the Freezing Charm, and she did not want to hear his voice. She did not want to look at him either. Instead, she raised her wand to her temple and pulled out a strand of memory with it, gleaming silver and drifting like a fine hair before she caught it with a small glass phial.

"You want to know how I feel about you?" she said contemptuously, setting the phial on the table. "These are my memories of you and how I feel about you. Feel free to peruse them at your leisure. _Accio Eogan's Memory_."

Another glass phial floated from the door of Nott's bedroom. She caught that too, staring at the silver glow of it, all she had left of Eogan, before she tucked it into her pocket. "I'll leave you to it," she said quietly, and left his flat. He was still frozen on the couch.

She couldn't Disapparate in the state she was in; her knees started shaking the moment Nott's door closed behind her. She made it as far as the Leaky Cauldron before she reached for the pendant and yanked it, breaking the chain.

Moments later there was a crack like a gunshot in the alley between The Leaky Cauldron and the next Muggle building, and Blaise strode out of it, his face grim. When he saw Story standing alone and unharmed he relaxed.

"I can't Apparate," she informed him. Her voice didn't shake, though her knees were still doing so. "I may faint."

She didn't remember much after that until Blaise set her down on a familiar couch, and she curled up and fell asleep.


	12. Chapter 11: Memory

Chapter Eleven: Memory

_She watched as he walked to the Whomping Willow, approaching the tiny, dark-haired girl who nestled under its branches. He called to her, and she touched the tree gently once, twice, then walked from under the willow. The boy and the girl sat on a rock and talked; he showed her a newspaper, they talked some more, and then they kissed._

_They held hands, walking through Hogsmeade; the girl laughed at the boy when they went into Honeydukes and told him that she liked caramels and toffee better than chocolate. He laughed and spoke softly and kissed her, and the wizards in the shop laughed._

_They walked through London, stopping at a Muggle coffee shop and buying coffee with the Muggle money the girl kept on her person. _

_And then the memories were not visual, they were just voices, whispers, sensations that she would no doubt feel on her lips and between her legs if she were not just a ghost here..._

_...and then there was a sudden silence. Then a loud crack. Then cursing, footsteps, strange lights in sightless eyes, and then overwhelming pain, and then nothing..._

Story found herself on the floor of her apartment, gasping, twined in blankets. She stared at the shallow dish that hovered in mid-air, the one that had just expelled her from its depths.

She had bought the Pensieve second-hand at Borgin and Burkes. Generally the place was considered a curiosity shop these days, and generally had an Auror or two lurking outside, checking out those who entered and exited. The Pensieve had been a bargain too good to resist; she had paid a hundred Galleons for it, nearly an entire shoot's wages, but she could afford it, and a new Pensieve would have been ten times that much. Borgin hadn't tried to argue her up, either; he had stared at her, allowed her to pay her proposed price, then watched her leave, his ancient eyes wary and troubled. She knew why, of course. Everyone knew why.

**MYSTERIOUS MODEL'S VIRGIN BOYFRIEND FOUND DEAD** was the ridiculous headline Rita Skeeter had managed to spin on it this time. It had made the front page. Story was something of a celebrity, but she supposed that it would all fade away in time. There were speculations as to who the murderer was; Blaise, Nott, Daphne, and Story herself were all speculated upon. She didn't actually read the article; Blaise summed it up for her in a disgusted voice.

"Not that I'm getting flak about it at work, because everyone at work knows neither you nor I killed him," he said, his voice dry with disgust. "You took Eogan into work once, remember? They all loved him. Daph was in Oxford on the day in question- it's just Skeeter being mental. And if Nott's getting anything, then he bloody well deserves it and much more besides."

And at that point she stopped listening, and a few minutes later Blaise noticed she had stopped listening and stopped talking about it.

She still modeled, though she hated it now. She realized that whenever she was asked to pose in any way that felt even a little uncomfortable to her- she had modeled some of the shorter dresses, and as a rule she preferred long skirts- she had gritted her teeth and thought of Eogan, thought that he would be pleased because she looked pretty. Now that she didn't have him to think of, it was harder. She lost more weight, which mystified everyone. Blaise made a point of watching her eat. She ate plenty. She knew that the weight loss was from worry and stress, not anything like an eating disorder.

The funeral came a week after the murder. She had not arranged anything; she was surprised and touched to learn that Daphne and Blaise had taken the reins of the funeral. They asked her to give the eulogy. She wrote one and read it. Her parents cried. Daphne cried. Quite a lot of the people there cried, though more of them knew her than they had known Eogan. She did not cry. She heard Pansy's whisper of "the Ice Queen" and ignored it. If she had to be an ice queen to stop herself from feeling anything at all, she would become an ice queen, and do so with pleasure.

But after that life was grey and dull. She was conscious of it. She hung out with Blaise when they were not at work. She visited her parents on the weekends. She laughed and smiled and chattered when normality required it. But at night, when she was alone, she made visits to the Pensieve, heard the sweet memories, watched them, then heard them, then listened again and again as the boy who had loved her once killed the boy she had not been sure she loved.

She did not move anything of Eogan's from the flat; she still slept in the bed and sat on the couch, although a new one appeared in her apartment two weeks after the funeral. She suspected it was Blaise's doing. She ignored the bottles of Irish firewhisky in the bottom of the fridge that were Eogan's. He had drunk from them occasionally on his rougher days.

His mother visited from Australia; she smoked a cigarette and breathed the fumes all over the kitchen as Story politely told her how her son had died, leaving out some of the essential facts such as the identity of the murderer. When she had finished, his mother squinted at her and said, "You seem like such a cold-blooded bitch, whatever did he see in you?"

That had been a bad day; she had gone back to the Pensieve and watched the memories again, but they had all been colored with the recognition that she was cold, in comparison to Eogan. She had initiated some of the kissing, but it had been mostly him. And he was a feeler, always touching her in some small way, his hand on the small of her back or in her hair- but Astoria was not. She preferred to focus on one thing at a time when she was kissing Eogan. They had never gotten carried away, because Story hadn't let it happen and Eogan was a gentleman. And the feeling of coldness had never quite gone away afterwards.

Over and over she watched the memories, and it was this that made life bearable, made her able to go on. She had the Pensieve, and she watched the memories over and over until she knew them perfectly. She had everything he had said memorized, and everything she had said memorized. Sometimes she watched them from the Whomping Willow, standing nearly inside the trunk as an insubstantial ghost. Sometimes she walked up the hill and watched their first kiss from afar. Sometimes she lurked in Honeydukes until they came in and the caramel-toffee line and the kiss and the clapping from passersby. Sometimes she sat with Eogan in the cafe for hours, sitting exactly where she had really been sitting and speaking in synchronization with her former self.

But no matter how many of the good memories she lived through, no matter how many times she watched them all replay, all of them faded into the darkness that was his blindness, and all of them ended in hearing the not-quite-recognized rumble of Nott's voice, and feeling the stabbing pain in eyes and chest before being hurled from the Pensieve to land, sweating, crying, angry, hurt, on the bed.

The good memories were wonderful, like a healing balm, but the bad ones ripped her open, again and again. She was hurt by that memory because in what Eogan's dying brain could remember of Nott, the murderer sounded... happy. Muttering things only distinguishable to himself, yes, but there was a low, fierce joy in the sound, and after repeated listenings, she could hear one word at the very end, as the pain stabbed at her eyes and heart: "_Mine._"

One day as she walked on the runway, tossing her hair, hands on her hips, her knees buckled and she fell. Blaise ignored her protests and promptly took her to St. Mungo's. Other than severe malnutrition, however, nothing was wrong with her. They prescribed weight-gain potions to be taken with and between meals, and she drank them faithfully, gaining back a little of the weight she had had.

Then she got pneumonia.

She spent a month in her bed, coughing and sneezing, her weight staying exactly the same because she was losing as much as she gained. Blaise brought her potion after potion and made chicken broth more times than she could count. She didn't tell her parents and Daphne, although she was sure that Blaise had written them about it. She stayed curled up in her bed, and at night when Blaise was not there, she took out the Pensieve again, shrugged away the blankets, and dove into the memories that she loved and hated, the ones written on her heart with letters of guilt.

And that, she realized, was the thing that was wrong with this. She was angry at Nott. She was angry at herself, but not as angry. She was angry with everyone except Eogan. But she was not sad. Not depressed.

The guilt was the worst though. She thought it through, thought about Nott and Eogan and occasionally Draco Malfoy, and wondered if Eogan would be alive if she had dated Nott, if Nott would have fought in the Battle if she had dated him. She wondered if she could have been happy with Nott, although she didn't wonder it because she liked him at all. She wondered if she could have done it to save Eogan.

When she began to think like this, all of the memories became horribly bitter. She watched Eogan and herself, thinking that if she had just said no, if she had slapped Eogan once, then he would have been alive and well, happy and healthy. He would have been safe from Nott.

He would have been safe from her.

She was dangerous. Knowing her was dangerous. People who knew her died.

She stopped speaking when Blaise came to help her with the pneumonia, except to say thank you. If she spoke to him, he might die. He talked to her, but she didn't talk back. She curled on the bed at night, every night of June, up until two in the morning watching herself kiss Eogan, until four in the morning listening to him die. She was a little better in July, able to go to the couch during the day, but while Blaise was at work, she sat on the couch and stared at the wall, where words in blood had once been written. She remembered her own memories, but they were infinitely worse than those of Eogan's. His were a few collected moments at his death, and hers were long, eternal days of agony and nights of torture, nightmares, sleepless dreaming.

She wondered if Nott had rooted around in his head to pick the most sensual memories, but decided that it had only been what he could draw at the last moment before Eogan had died. She began to see the scene in her own mind; the echoes of Nott's Apparition told her that he had appeared in the kitchen. Eogan wouldn't have said anything, would have thought it was her, but two clomping footsteps later, just as he realized his mistake and probably opened his mouth to yell for someone, anyone, Nott had stabbed him, whispering over and over, ending with "mine."

She knew he meant her. She was an awful person, putting Eogan in Nott's path. Maybe she deserved to be with Nott. They were both horrible people.

She stopped sleeping in August. There was day, when you could see without lamps, and there was night, which was for moonlight and the silver of the Pensieve. She hadn't gone into work since she had had pneumonia. She didn't remember if she still had it or not; she just knew that she was always tired but she could not sleep, that her body was thin and worn.

On the last day of August she watched the clock hands tick from six to seven, and when they struck seven she got up and went to the bathroom to shower, as she did every day. She looked at herself, and was surprised to discover that striping back from her right temple was a lock of hair that was white.

She didn't know how long she stared at it- too long, because there was a knocking at the door of her flat, and then a crack as someone Apparated into the kitchen, and Blaise's voice, annoyed, shouting, "Toria, open your damn door!"

But he stopped and stared at her, as she stared at herself, stared at the white streak in her hair.

And for the first time in two and a half months she spoke aloud.

"I- I think I need help."

And it did not hurt her pride to say this. That white streak had reminded her of something, something that had been pressing on her all along but which she had largely ignored. It had reminded her that she was human- she was not some wraith that lived only in Eogan's memories. She needed to take care of herself. She still had time. She could live.

And Blaise let out one long breath, sagged against the doorframe, and murmured, "Thank Merlin for that," and she wasn't sure what it was but something broke in her, something that had been clenched around her heart like an iron fist, unmoving yet slow to anger, but it broke, and it was like she had been physically struck and hurled across the room, because she staggered against the counter. He had been so much, Eogan, he was three years of her life and she could not discount that, but neither could she stay in those three years forever. She had to go sometime, and the going was now.

Blaise took her to St. Mungo's, and she explained to them quietly that she had a problem. The first thing they did was give her a triple dose of Strengthening Potions and a quadruple one of Sleeping Draughts. The potions relaxed her tired mind and muscles and she fell asleep almost instantly.

When she woke, Blaise was there, and so was Daphne, and Daphne stared at her reproachfully and said, "You should have told me."

"Don't," said Blaise sharply to her sister. "She's got enough on her plate, don't you add anything more."

"She's right," said Story calmly. "I've been horrid, Daph. I'm... I'm sorry."

Daphne hugged her, and Story remembered held hands in a battle for their lives.

"I wish you could sleep through this," said Daphne, "the way I did."

Story remembered that. She remembered a lot of things. Whirlwinds of memories filled her, not just the sad ones of the past few months but happy ones, from happier times and places than the disinfectant-tinged halls of St. Mungo's. And she cried, and Daphne cried, and even though Blaise didn't cry he did look away and swipe his wand across his face very quickly before smiling at them.

When she had been checked into the hospital, she had been five feet and nine inches tall and had weighed thirty-eight and a half kilos. Three weeks later, she weighed fifty-six kilos, which was a little less than she had weighed before she had started modeling. The white streak in her hair wasn't repairable, unless she wanted to dye it. Blaise offered, and she turned him down.

"If I can't see it," she explained, "I might forget it's there. And if I forget it, then I might go back."

The hardest thing was when she was released. She took Blaise and Daphne to her flat and she showed them the Pensieve, told them that she had been living in it vicariously, that she knew all of the memories by heart. Blaise shook his head in disbelief; Daphne cried again.

"I want to say good-bye," she said, "but I want you to come with me, because if I go alone, I'm not sure I'll come back."

Blaise took her left hand, and Daphne took her right. Story pulled them into the Pensieve.

She didn't speak with her former self- such a happy, tiny girl, with light and love in her eyes. Not just love, though; trust, which was more important. She had trusted Eogan thoroughly and completely. And she let go, let go of that girl that used to be and the roguish boy with the blue-grey eyes and the smile that was just for her when nobody else was looking.

And then came his death, and she did not listen to it again; she didn't have to. Daphne frowned at hearing the voice- familiar, but not recognizable, but Blaise stared at her, and his face was so heartbroken that Story knew she had done him a great deal of wrong in keeping this from him.

And then they stood in her room once more, holding hands still.

"You listened to him die," said Daphne softly.

Story nodded.

"What we should do is give this to the Aurors," said Blaise. "See what they make of it."

"Isn't the investigation closed due to lack of evidence?" said Daphne, frowning.

"Yeah," said Blaise decisively, "but that doesn't mean we can't turn it in."

"Will we be in trouble for withholding evidence?" said Daphne, her face crinkling with worry.

They walked into the kitchen, debating, and Story's eye fell on a slip of parchment that stuck to the refrigerator, the corners fluttering gently.

"I know who can help," she said.

They sent Blaise's owl to Bill Weasley, with an anonymous note and an Anti-Tracking Charm placed on the owl. The owl carried a package as well as the note; the package was small and square and held a glass phial filled with silver memories. The note read as follows:

_You told me to owl you if I needed a favor. I'm calling that in. This is something I should_

_have given to the Aurors long ago, but I wasn't quite right in the head and I've kept it,_

_looked at the contents for long months. Please don't tell them who got it to you; keep my_

_name out of it. Don't ask me how I got it, either, because I've promised not to tell except _

_under certain circumstances, and those circumstances have fortunately not yet been met._

_And if they're really stuck, send an owl my way and I can tell you some things- not all of _

_them, but definitely some- about the memories._

_I'm sorry._


	13. Chapter 12: Changes

Chapter Twelve: Changes

She stopped modeling. Blaise was horrified, but then appeased as she explained that the white streak in her hair would be bad for business, and she didn't want to scare any of their customers. And anyway, she had had enough of being on one side of the camera. She talked to Neil, but found that she didn't have to apologize much, because Blaise had explained a lot of it to him and lied about the rest. She really had to do something nice for Blaise.

So she became apprenticed to a senior photographer, still with Gladrags. He showed her the cameras, showed her the best shots to find when shooting the models. She learned fast, taking an interest in the pictures. Soon her work was very good, as good as any of the senior photographers. They complimented her. Neil promoted her; it turned out that photographers were paid as much as models and sometimes even more, because they did more work. Plus she didn't have to dress up for her job anymore; she could go to work in her pajamas if she liked, and there would be raised eyebrows, but it wouldn't be against the rules.

Her twentieth birthday was in November. Blaise and Neil kidnapped her and took her out to the Leaky Cauldron for drinks. She didn't get very drunk- just drunk enough to do something extremely cunning, and that was to use a nonverbal Refilling Charm on Blaise and Neil's glasses. Soon the two of them were more drunk than she was, and then all she did was claim that she had to be in early tomorrow and her hangover would be bad enough as it was, so she would go home and they could stay and enjoy themselves more.

When she met Blaise for work the next day, Headache Potion at work, she noticed that Blaise was wearing Neil's jacket. She raised an eyebrow.

"He... forgot it," said Blaise lamely. There were dark circles under his eyes, but he looked extremely happy. "I'm taking it in for him."

"Did he forget it at the Leaky or at your flat this morning?" said Story, grinning. She dodged Blaise's playful shove. "You woke me up this morning, you know- I heard him leave."

Her friend blushed.

"I'm happy for you," said Story. "He did break up with his boyfriend, right?"

"That was in June," said Blaise.

"Well then, I don't know why it took so long," said Story, with a poker face this time, and she laughed before they Disapparated. Blaise chased her into the building.

As November wore on and turned into December, Story found herself wishing she were at home- her childhood home, in Oxford. The Greengrass family were not as wealthy as many of the other Wizarding families, for instance the Malfoys or the Zabinis, but they had lived in one place for a long time, and their family history was ancient- it went back through the Black family, as most Wizarding families did, but that had been a long time ago. The Greengrasses had been Greengrasses of Summervale Hall, in Oxford, since William the Conqueror, who had been the father of a young witch named Anne. She had married a Muggle named Thomas Greengrass, and her children were born witches and wizards, settling mostly in Oxford but in other places as well. The few Squibs in her family line had educated themselves and taught at the college in Oxford. There hadn't been a Squib child in the Greengrass line for a long time, however.

But family history aside, she missed Summervale. She hadn't been back there very often since she had moved out.

She brought the idea up, tentatively, with Blaise. To her surprise, he agreed.

"I love my flat," he said, "but you've gone through hell in yours- it will do you good to live elsewhere. And I know Daphne misses you. Scarlett's been rude to her about you, and after a while Daphne told her that if she kept saying those sorts of things she wasn't welcome at Summervale anymore. And Pansy hasn't been welcome for ages, all the bosh she writes about you."

"I'll miss you," said Story, hugging him. "You've taught me a lot- and I haven't been nearly grateful enough to you for it."

He nodded. "That's life, sweetie," he said, hugging her back. "And you've taught me a lot, too. You used to be Daph's kid sister, you know? You're Toria Greengrass, and I should have been friends with you in Hogwarts, and be damned to Nott. You're my reminder that the sun comes up new every day, sweet and innocent as you still are, after all you've been through."

She visited her parents and asked if she could move back in. Her mother was delighted. "Of course you can, Torrie!" she said. "We miss you."

"I'll still work every day," said Story, "but I'll be home in the evenings."

"You can come to the parties," said her mother.

Story groaned. The parties were something that had happened a lot before the second Wizarding War, but had increased exponentially afterwards. Many of the parents of the pureblooded (reading between the lines, that meant _Slytherin_, thought Story) wizards had been married off at the parties. They would arrive at the host house by family; the parents would chat, there would generally be an orchestra, and the children of marriageable age would prance about in dress robes and ballgowns and they would waltz. It was a way for pureblooded wizards to parade their children about in what they considered a safe environment- no nasty Muggleborns or half-bloods to ruin their children's progeny.

"Or you don't have to," said Daphne, "but they're really boring without company and I like going." She sounded wistful.

Story made a note to herself to pick up some of the castaway fashionable gown-style dress robes for Daphne. She had plenty for herself.

She moved back to Summervale that week. She packed all of her things into the Hogwarts trunk that she'd never really let go of, and into the trunk that had been Eogan's. She sold the contract back to the landlord, said good-bye to Blaise and Neil, and Apparated to Oxford.

She stumbled, and her home was before her. Nothing like so opulent as Malfoy Manor- no rosebushes, no peacocks- but Summervale Hall was a moderately large stone house. The road broke from the main highway with gates, and the driveway was a mile and a half long. Story had bypassed that and turned up on the doorstep.

Her mother squawked as she opened the door with her key and tried to drag all her things in herself ("Let the house-elves help you! We have to pay them now, they might as well work!"). She found her old room- or set of rooms, because it was just the two of them and each of them had had a bedroom, a bathroom, and a playroom while growing up. Daphne's playroom had long since become her closet and vanity. Story's playroom still had her childhood books, her dolls, her toy broomstick, and various other things.

"I bought you new bedsheets," said her mother from the doorway of the playroom, wringing her hands in her excitement. "I thought the old ones would be a bit immature. You like green, don't you?"

She did like green. Never olive-green- that was Nott's color- but a clear emerald green, almost but not quite blue, or a lime color. Her favorite shade of green was pale mint-green, though.

"Do you mind if I change it?" she asked her mum. "The colors, I mean."

"Go right ahead," said her mum. "I'll be downstairs. Tea's in half an hour." She left.

Story unpacked her things; it wasn't ever an ordeal to pack and unpack, as a witch. Soon her childhood books were joined by the schoolbooks she had kept in perfect condition; she had double copies because she had Eogan's books, too. His clothes she had long since handed off to Blaise, telling him to keep what he liked and send the rest to St. Mungo's for charity. But she still had some of Eogan's things. The knick-knacks she removed from his trunk, conjured a cardboard box, placed them inside, sealed, it, and sent the box up to the attic. When all of her belongings were disposed of, she looked around the room.

As a child, her favorite color had been blue. Everything was painted a pale, delicate blue. The sheets her mother had gotten were grassy green. Looking around at the room, she decided that she wanted neither blue nor green in her bedroom, but silvery grey. Nobody would see it but herself and her family, after all. She waved her wand. The walls became a pale grey, the sheets and curtains a darker color. The carpet she turned black; she would have chosen white, but white carpets got dirty.

The playroom connected her bedroom and the main hallways of the house. She turned that room from the bright purple it had been painted to teal and turquoise, bright, gem-like shades. She found the wicker rocking chair from the old nursery and placed it in that room as well. She would have to get a couch or something; if she ever had a private guest over, they could come to the playroom, or rather a parlor, and she could talk with them in relative privacy.

The bathroom had been pink. She changed it to mint-green. That was a good color for a bathroom- light, but not so ugly as to make you look sour when you stared in the mirror. The outer curtains rippled as she tapped her wand against them; they turned a darker shade of mint green. The inside plastic curtains were still white, and brand-new. Probably her mother had bought those as well. She charmed them to repel mold and mildew, then did the same with the ceiling of the bathroom, the sink, and the toilet.

When she was done, she sat down on her bed. She was home.

And then there was a soft crack, and a house-elf appeared in the doorway.

Story stared for a moment- one didn't keep house-elves in London if one lived in Muggle-contracted housing- then recovered herself and said politely, "Hello."

"Hello, Miss Astoria," squeaked the elf. It was female, because the spring-green towel that all of the Greengrass elves wore was draped around her top half as well as her waist. She was cute for a house-elf, with neat, clean ears, a long, thin nose, and huge blue eyes. "I is Saidy, Miss. Miss Eugenia has assigned Saidy to be Miss Astoria's elf."

Story rubbed her nose. Trust her mother, to pick a house-elf for her. Then again, the house-elf who had taken care of her in her childhood had been ancient and was probably now dead.

"Thank you, Saidy," she said, smiling at the elf. "I very much appreciate it."

"Does Miss Astoria need anything?"

"No, I'm fine for now. I'll call you if I need anything, though. Thank you."

Saidy bowed. "Saidy is honored by Miss Astoria's kindness." The elf disappeared with a tiny crack.

Story sighed. Her half hour was nearly up. She was wearing jeans and a T-shirt, and tea at Summervale Hall was not something one wore jeans and a T-shirt to. She opened the closet and dug around for something to wear.

"Here," said Daphne, behind her. Story turned. Daphne's hair was piled on her head in an elegant knot, and she wore a plum dress that reached her knees, nylons, and matching heels. She had a hairbrush. "I'll do your hair."

Story grabbed a dress at random and changed into it as fast as she could, then pulled on nylons and shoes. Daphne did her hair, and Story changed the color of her shoes to match the light-blue dress.

"I wish I'd thought of that," said Daphne enviously. "I bought these shoes to match the dress. I shouldn't have bothered."

They went downstairs, Daphne first and Astoria second.

Summervale Hall had a special room just for tea. Their father wasn't home; he had a job as the chairman at St. Mungo's that required him to work from nine until late into the evening, depending on the day. It was five-thirty; these days, tea was an antiquated tradition, as most Muggles had jobs. In the Greengrass household, it was a way of life, and there were nearly always guests.

Story followed Daphne into the tea room and almost stopped dead.

Their mother sat on the couch next to a thin, sour-faced woman Story had only met a few times. Across from them, looking extremely uncomfortable, sat that woman's son, Theodore Nott.

Story was incredibly tempted to turn around and walk away, but her mother had already turned and seen them.

"Daphne, Astoria, come in," she said, and although it was phrased pleasantly, Astoria knew her mother and it was not a suggestion.

Daphne didn't know that Nott had killed Eogan- Story did keep her promises, after all- but she did know that Story and Nott were not on speaking terms. Story hadn't told her this. She suspected Blaise had done that. So Daphne glided forwards and took the seat on the sofa next to Nott, and Story took the chair on her mother's left. Mrs. Nott senior sat in the chair on the other side.

A house-elf Story recognized- his name was Bipsy, or some such thing- came trotting in with the tea-tray. Three more followed; one had the sandwiches, another had the pastries, and the last was Saidy, who skirted behind the other elves and stood behind Story's chair and pressed something into her hand. She had left her wand in her room.

Story was touched. She didn't know how Saidy had noticed, when she had left first, or how she knew that Story would want her wand, but she knew that Saidy had done this just for her. She smiled and whispered "Thank you" to the elf before turning her attention to her mother.

"Cream and sugar, Anneliese?" said her mother to Mrs. Nott, senior.

"Just cream, please, and thank you."

"Theodore? Cream and sugar?"

Nott shook his head. He was very determinedly not looking at Story, which was just fine by her.

"Daphne? Astoria?"

Astoria accepted her tea with cream and sugar and drank. The tea at Summervale was always top-notch, which was the only reason she was here at all. She took a sandwich from the tray. Cucumber and watercress sandwiches were not filling, but they were nice to eat, even in the middle of December. She hadn't had a proper tea in as long as she could remember.

After some minutes of chatter with Anneliese Nott, Eugenia Greengrass sat up straight and turned a little in her chair, then said proudly, "Astoria has just moved back into Summervale today, Anneliese. She lived in London for three years."

"So Theodore has mentioned," said Mrs. Nott. Her beady eyes were not the same color as her son's, thankfully, but they were the same shape, and their faces were similar. "And how did you like London, Astoria?"

"It was pleasant, but I prefer it here," answered Story. She took a sip of tea. "Summervale isn't quite as corrupted as London has become."

"Corrupted?" said Mrs. Nott, her eyebrows rising. "Do you think?"

"I do," said Story calmly. "Crime has increased from before the war, in both Muggle and Wizarding communities. And since there are more and more wizards and less and less housing to sustain them, wizards are forced to move into Muggle housing. I lived in a Muggle apartment for three years."

Mrs. Nott's eyebrows rose, and Story remembered that Mr. and Mrs. Nott were both ardently anti-Muggle. Theodore Nott Senior was a Death Eater, after all. He had been killed during the Battle of Hogwarts. But she was not going to apologize for her words.

"I wasn't aware that you kept up to date on criminal activity," said Mrs. Nott smoothly. "I, er... thought your work didn't require you to do anything in the line of academic research."

"Modeling leaves one with a lot of free time," said Story, and she allowed herself to sound mournful as she continued, "but that wasn't what motivated me to keep track of criminal activity. That would have been the murder of my boyfriend."

There was an awkward pause. Mrs. Nott's eyes were reserved, resting on Story, and she knew that the older woman was impressed and perhaps even a little touched. Story didn't look at her son.

"But I've been working on the other side of the camera," she said, with a polite, not friendly, smile at Mrs. Nott. "Photography has always been more my area, but my friend Blaise Zabini recommended me as a model to his superiors at Gladrags."

Mrs. Nott nodded. "Are you going to continue with photography at Gladrags, or will you join another company?"

"I've been thinking of starting my own business," said Story thoughtfully- she hadn't, but she knew that the idea would shock Mrs. Nott, who was still living in the nineteenth century as far as women's rights were concerned. "You know, advertise in the Daily Prophet, take family pictures, before-school pictures, that sort of thing." She waved her hand lazily, waiting for the older woman's response.

But Eugenia Greengrass said smoothly, "Anneliese, had you ever done a family portrait?"

"No," said Mrs. Nott. "My husband didn't have time for it."

"We haven't done one in quite some time," said her mother. "Not since the summer between Daphne's fourth and fifth year. I think we may try for it this year, now that Astoria is living here again. It would be very convenient."

The topic was changed, and Story contributed to it occasionally with veiled eyes and nods and subdued agreements. She did not look at Theodore or listen to whatever he was talking about with Daphne.

When the Notts finally left, Eugenia Greengrass turned to look at Story. Her mother looked like Daphne, with dark-gold hair and green eyes. She was plump rather than curvy. At some point, Daphne would fill out like Eugenia- probably after she was married.

But right now, Eugenia Greengrass was cross. "You do know that Mrs. Nott wants to match Theodore up with your sister?" she demanded.

Story had just taken a larger mouthful of tea than was good for her. She spat it out over the tea tray. "_What_?"

"That was disgusting," said Eugenia. "Did you forget all of your manners, living by yourself?"

"No," said Story, "you beat them into me when I was six. I had to work to remember that it was okay to eat a TV dinner sometimes. Why on earth do you want to marry Daphne off to Theodore Nott? Their family isn't exactly in the best of standing with the Ministry of Magic or the Wizarding community at large." _Also, he killed my boyfriend and has been obsessed with me for years._

"Because I'm the only one left," said Daphne softly.

Story looked at her.

"Pansy's still hung up on Draco Malfoy," said her sister. There was something coldly logical about the way she spoke, something that made Story feel guilty. "Scarlett is around, but Theo doesn't like her. Tracey's dead, and Millie is married to Greg Goyle. I'm his first choice, and he's told me he loves me."

_No, you're not, and no he doesn't,_ Story wanted to say, but she didn't. She just sighed.

"Please be nice to Anneliese," said Eugenia. "She's an old friend."

"I'll be nice to her if she's nice to me," said Story, "and she was not being nice to me. She implied that models are stupid. I used to think that, too, but there are all sorts among the profession, just like there are with every profession."

She didn't say that she suspected the reason why Mrs. Nott had sniped at her was that she knew that Story had rejected her son. It would have raised a lot of uncomfortable questions.

Eugenia sighed. "Just be polite to her, Astoria. Please?"

"I will," said Story.

She went back up to her room, and was surprised to see an owl on the windowsill, an envelope tied to its leg. She opened the window. The owl hopped in and stuck out a leg. It smelled of the sea.

_Thank you for your help. I've kept your name out of it, though Harry and my brother Ron _

_have both been pressing me for more information. Anything else you can provide that _

_would help us would be brilliant._

_Bill Weasley_

She closed her eyes. It would be so easy to write _Theodore Nott_ on a piece of paper and send it in. But now she couldn't risk it.

Nott had played his hand well. By pursuing Daphne rather than herself, he had ensured that she would have to speak to him and that he would not get in trouble for it. Because if he married Daphne and Story told the Aurors that he was Eogan's killer, the heartbreak everyone would experience would be entirely her fault. Mrs. Nott probably knew that her son had killed Eogan; it was part of Story's rejection. If she told the Aurors and they arrested Nott, then Mrs. Nott would tell Daphne and Eugenia, and she would tell them that Story had turned him in.

She ought to have sent that memory straight to the Aurors and given them the stolen underwear as proof and watched them throw him in Azkaban.

She closed her eyes and sighed.

"Miss Astoria," said Saidy's voice gently from the doorway, "Miss Eugenia says to tell you it is time for supper."

"Thank you, Saidy, I'll be down in a moment."

"Is Miss Astoria troubled?" said Saidy softly.

"It's not really any of your business, but I am," said Story. "Don't worry about it, Saidy."

"Saidy does not mean to be rude, miss- but Saidy will listen and keep your secrets, if miss wishes," said Saidy. "Miss was very kind to Saidy's mother Norsy when Norsy cared for miss when miss was a child."

So that was why Saidy had been assigned to her. Story sighed. "Thank you," she said. "I'll let you know if I need someone to talk to."

She changed from the dress into her jeans and T-shirt and went down to eat dinner. The house-elves were bringing food out from the kitchen. She sat down next to Daphne and smiled at her parents.

Virgil Greengrass was generally considered more handsome than his wife, but when they had gotten married, Eugenia Lestrange had been the better-looking of the pair- a distant cousin of the Death Eaters who had shared her name, she had also shared their good looks. Virgil Greengrass was dark-haired and pale, like Story, but instead of being delicate he had the advantage of looking mysterious and brooding. He was in reality a very gentle, quiet man. He hadn't had much time for his wife and daughters when they had been younger, but he had made a name for himself with charity and kindness in his work and among those who knew him personally. If you needed a loan, no questions asked, you went to Virgil Greengrass. Story admired her father deeply; it was his work on the board of St. Mungo's that had started her out wanting to be a Healer.

He smiled back at her, and after a moment of silence where they all sat at the table, he picked up his fork and knife and cut into the roast beef.

"We're glad to have you home, Astoria," he said softly.

"Thank you, Father," she answered.

They ate in silence. Normally, Eugenia and Daphne filled Summervale with chatter, but supper was for reflection, and to give Virgil a break from his bone-weary day of meetings and paperwork. Story didn't mind. It gave her a chance to her herself think.

After supper she didn't go up and hide in her room, either. Unless there was a party or gathering of some sort, evenings were for family. Virgil sat in his designated armchair by the fire, listening to Eugenia and Daphne talking on the sofa. Story took the other chair, across from her father, and curled up to listen. The fire was very warm, and it had been a long day. She could feel herself drowsing a little bit, but she wasn't sleepy enough to nod off. Especially not once she heard Daphne say,

"We've got a date on Friday, and he made especially sure to arrange it that I was free, so I think he may propose."

It was a Tuesday. Story felt her relaxed mood slide away. Theo would be as good as her brother-in-law on Friday.

It was not shaping up to be a very good first day home.


	14. Chapter 13: Wedding

Chapter Thirteen: Wedding

Story woke early on a particular morning in May and realized that it was important for two reasons. She woke early because she could hear frantic people running about the house, the nervous squeaking of the house-elves, and all sorts of goings on. She lay there for a moment, collecting resolve, and then she sat up and looked out the back window. She could see her father, wearing old clothes and looking harried, carefully directing the house-elves to set up chairs. A van had arrived bearing the legend "Millimant's Magic Marquees," and four wizards had exited the van and were approaching her father.

Someone rapped on her main door, and Story got up and padded through her playroom-parlor to open it.

It was Daphne. She was wearing sweatpants and a T-shirt and she had dark circles under her eyes. "Oh my God. Torrie, help me." She strode right in past Story and began walking in circles around the parlor. Her hands were reaching up and raking through her tangled golden-brown hair.

"Your bachelorette party with Blaise and Neil and the girls from work was the night before last, so this is definitely not you being tired from a night out," said Story. "Why haven't you slept?"

"Oh my God. Torrie. I'm getting married. I'm getting _married_." Her sister's voice cracked. "Oh, my God, I'm going to die. I'm going to die."

"You will not die," said Story firmly. "I'm the maid of honor, and the maid of honor does not let the bride die." She grabbed a corner of the carpet and pushed it back, then transfigured a few square feet of her floor to stone. She set her cauldron down there and lit a fire underneath, then filled it with water. "Sit down, Daphne. I'm making you a potion for nerves. You won't be really drugged up, but you won't be freaking out like you clearly are now-"

"I'm not freaking out. I'M NOT FREAKING OUT. Oh, my God, I'm freaking out." Daphne burst into tears and slumped into the rocking chair, sobbing. Story rather thought that that would have been her reaction, were she marrying Theodore Nott, but she suppressed that thought and focused on making the potion. It had been one that Blaise had made for her before the biggest photo shoots, the ones that were for the catalogue covers or the full-page _Daily Prophet_ spreads. One handful of newt tails. Stir clockwise for one minute. Powder unicorn horn thoroughly; add to potion. Two handfuls of beetle pincers. One well-cracked snail shell. Stir once counter-clockwise, stir twice clockwise. Repeat with stirring until potion turns pale green. Remove from heat. Add grindylow whiskers and oregano to taste. Stir counter-clockwise for two minutes. Allow to sit for three minutes before consumption.

She looked at Daphne, who was still sobbing wildly as the potion cooled, letting off spirals of steam. The smell of oregano filled the air. "What are you worried about?" she said mildly. "Are you a virgin?"

"Not anymore," said Daphne, blushing wildly under the tears.

"...and that was far more than I wanted to know. I hope you used contraceptives- Mother would hate for you to have a baby only five months after the fact, it would look horrible in the gossip column." Story ladled potion into some of her empty phials and corked and labeled them with her wand. She could send the extras down to her parents and keep one, or possibly two or three, for herself. They would all need them. "And you love him, right?"

"Yes."

Story didn't let herself sigh at her sister, because that would have raised a lot of uncomfortable questions. "So really, it's just the ceremony that's got you on edge. And really, Daph, the only work you have to do at the wedding is look pretty, walk down the aisle, and say 'I do.' He has a lot more work than you do, and the wizard who's doing your vows has more work than both of you, and the rest of us have far more work than _he_ does. Just think about the reception, where you can smile and hug everyone and get a lot of free stuff."

Daphne smiled and wiped her eyes. Story handed her a potion anyway. "Drink this. You may need another one in a few hours."

"Thank you," said Daphne. She opened the phial and downed it in one, then clambered down to the floor where Story sat to hug her. "I don't deserve such a good sister."

"Nonsense," said Story. "_I _don't deserve _you_." _And neither does the son-of-a-bitch who's marrying you._

She took Daphne back to her room. There were three bridesmaids in total; two of them were friends from Daphne's waitressing job at The Crossed Wands and the other was Story. She was also the maid of honor. The other two girls shrieked and jumped up and down with Daphne.

"Oh, my God, you're getting _married_!"

"This is so _exciting_!"

"Eeeeeeeeeeee!"

Story smiled and laughed, but she couldn't bring herself to shriek or jump or giggle. She just wasn't that sort of person. Instead she got in the shower, dried herself off, and put on shorts and a tank top. She had her hair in a towel, so that it would be wet when she was done. And no sooner did she open the door to exit her room than she came face to face with the groom.

He closed his eyes, in a grimace.

"What do you want?" snapped Story.

"I'm trying not to look at you, and I'm assuming I have permission to speak if you asked me a question, and I just had a rather important question for you. Are you revising the rules of our... _arrangement_, since I'm going to be your brother-in-law?"

He spoke in a pained whisper. There was no emotion, no longing on his face; there was only a sort of... fear. Story hoped he was afraid of her. She was afraid of him, but she refused to let it show.

"I'll come up with something," she said. She knew she sounded angry, even harsh, but he deserved it. "And I'll send you a private owl a few days into the honeymoon." She made to close the door, but he said, "I was hoping that civil conversation wouldn't be out of the question."

"It most certainly is, unless we're in public, and after you're married, I mean to make up an argument with you so that there's no doubt in the public eye about my feelings towards you."

"I was hoping to be friends."

It was like a punch in the gut.

"_Get away from me before I hex you until you're unrecognizable,_" she spat.

He left, eyes still closed, hands up, backing away. Story left the room as well, closing the door to her room behind her and sealing it with a hex she had invented herself, and went back down the hallway to Daphne's room.

It was a little quieter and yet more chaotic, because Eugenia and Anneliese Nott had joined the bridal party and were supervising hair and makeup and the ivory whirlwind that was Daphne's dress. A few of the house-elves were helping, too; ironing the crisp jade-green dresses for the bridesmaids and the dresses for the two mothers.

"Remind me your names, I have no memory for names," Story said to the other bridesmaids. It was a little bit of a lie; she just hadn't bothered to learn their names.

"I'm Maura and this is Elyse," said the the black-haired one. She had a laughing face. The other one had coppery curls and a more subdued attitude. "And you're Torrie, right?"

"Yes, but only Daphne gets to call me that," said Story, smiling to let them know she wasn't offended. "Astoria is fine."

They laughed. Story learned that Elyse had a boyfriend, but Maura was single. Both of them were purebloods; Elyse had gone to Hogwarts and had been a Ravenclaw, in the year between Daphne and Story, but Maura's parents had sent her to Beauxbatons, because her father was French and he disapproved of Hogwarts. They had known Daphne from work; Daphne had been working at The Crossed Wands for nearly five years and was getting ready to leave her job, as the wife of Theodore Nott; but Maura had been working there for three years, and Elyse for two and a half.

"You were a model, weren't you? Was that fun?" asked Elyse.

Story nodded. It had been fun, in a way. "I got sick, though, so they had me in photography for a while." It was the standard story she used when someone asked her about being a model. She didn't want to be just Astoria Greengrass who used to be a model; she wanted to be Astoria Greengrass who used to be a model and a photographer.

And yes, she wanted more than that, but sometimes the truth was better left unsaid.

They put on their dresses. Story's dress was longer than the other two girls, reaching her ankles with a slight trail instead of stopping at her calves. That was the only indication that she was the maid of honor; in every other respect their dresses were identical. The bouquets, charmed to keep from drying or rotting, waited in glass vases on the counter.

"Torrie," said Daphne, "you have the most experience with makeup, could you-?"

Story nodded and pulled a chair up in front of Daphne. She worked on her sister's face for a while; spells to hide blemishes, all the ones she had learned from the girls at Gladrags; blush for the cheeks; mascara; tiny bits of eyeliner; and on and on with the little bits. When Daphne's makeup was done she cast a Repelling Charm on it so that the inevitable tears wouldn't wreck it. It had the added advantage of not allowing Daphne to touch her face and smear the makeup. She painted her sister's fingernails clear and her toenails green- after all, Daphne's shoes were close-toed. Eugenia was doing Daphne's hair, curling each lock individually and piling them up in a complicated knot at the crown of her head, fastening the veil underneath the curls.

"Astoria, you need to do your own hair and makeup, there's only three hours until the ceremony," said Eugenia. Her voice was beginning to screech at the edges.

"Relax, Mum," said Story. "I fixed my Gladrags-specialty calming draught for Daphne, she's as happy as a lark. Do you want one?"

It was a remark of her mother's stress that she didn't even argue with Story about using potions as drugs, she merely nodded. Story went to get her mother a potion and sent Saidy down to give her father one, then swallowed one herself. Instantly she felt relaxed and calm, though not happy. She could not be happy at the thought of this marriage. All she could do was pretend.

She did her own makeup, but Saidy reappeared and offered to do her hair. Story let her. She didn't know what Saidy did, but her mother complimented the house-elf on it. It was intricate, with braids curled into a knot at the side of her head.

"Thanks, Saidy," said Story.

Saidy curtsied. "Miss is most welcome. Does Miss require anything else?"

Story glanced around and spotted Mrs. Nott fidgeting impatiently and looking cross. "Um, yes." She lowered her voice. "Could you make Mrs. Nott a cup of tea, but before you give it to her, there are some potions on the floor of my parlor. Don't dump a whole potion in, just a few drops. If she asks, just tell her that I told you to make her one."

"Yes, Miss." Saidy vanished.

Story looked at herself in the mirror. She was very nearly ready. She pinned the corsage of lisanthium and baby's breath on her dress and picked up her bouquet of the same flowers. The wedding colors were lavender, jade, and white. Mrs. Nott wore ivory and Eugenia wore lavender. And Daphne was a vision in her dress- short flowing sleeves, a sweetheart neckline, and voluminous skirts. This wedding was a Very Big Deal, according to Eugenia and Daphne, and they were all dressed for it.

"I need a drink," said Daphne suddenly.

"Do you mean water, tea, or another potion, because if you mean alcohol, you don't get any until after you're married," said Story severely.

Daphne groaned. "It had better be another potion again."

"Let's wait a little longer," said Story, eyeing her sister. "You look jittery. Did you drink soda or coffee this morning? The potion doesn't go well with caffeine."

"I had coffee before I talked to you."

Story sighed. "That explains it. We'll wait an hour, if we can."

In the meantime, they got out of Daphne's room, so that the house-elves could finish Daphne's laundry, to be packed into the bags that would be sent along on the honeymoon. Most of the boxes had already been sent ahead to Cedar Point, the Nott estate. Daphne's room had only had a few of her clothes left in it. They moved to the master bedroom, checking to be sure Theodore wasn't anywhere near, and Eugenia and Mrs. Nott went downstairs to finish the final arrangements. Daphne was talking with Maura and Elyse and Story was bored and there weren't any books in her parents' room. She amused herself by making colored bubbles float from her wand in Daphne's wedding colors.

"Torrie."

Daphne had come over and sat on the side of the bed by her. She hadn't even noticed. "Hey, soon-to-be-married sister."

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Why don't you like Theodore?"

Story kept her face carefully blank, although she wanted to groan. Maura and Elyse had excused themselves; from the faint smells she had caught on them during their earlier conversation, Story suspected it was to smoke a cigarette. Daphne didn't smoke. Story had smoked the occasional cigarette, but she didn't like them very much and had stopped a long time ago.

"I do like him," she lied.

"You never say his name."

"Don't I?"

"No." Daphne's face was sober.

Story sighed. "If I could tell you, I would." It was her sister, after all. Daphne did deserve some semblance of the truth. "But we've made a deal. I don't tell anybody, and he leaves me alone when we're not required to speak to each other."

Daphne nodded, then said slowly, "This... it doesn't have anything to do with Eogan, does it?"

She hated to lie, but if she said yes, then Daphne would figure it out. Perhaps Daphne wasn't as smart as she was, but she certainly wasn't stupid. She shook her head. "No, of course not. It was a sort of a deal we made when he first got out of Azkaban. He expressed some interest left over from our school days and I turned him down. He was sort of annoyed about it, and I struck him this deal."

Daphne gazed at her for a moment, then nodded. "Okay. I believe you."

_Because I'm a bloody brilliant liar and a horrible person._ "Thanks. Do you want to take that potion now?"

Daphne nodded again. Story handed her the potion, and her sister swallowed it, relaxing almost instantly.

There was a knock on the door of the master bedroom, and Blaise's voice rang out, "We know you're in there, your mum told us, and we're practically bridesmaids so you'd better let us in."

Story went to the door and opened it to Blaise and Neil. Blaise wore jade-green dress robes and Neil wore his customary Westwood suit ("because Muggles, for all their strange style, make _divine_ suits") with a tie the same shade as Blaise's robes.

"Oh, my God, Daphne, you're gorgeous!" said Neil. "Look at her, Blaise, I'm going to cry." He blew his nose into a satin handkerchief and beamed at them.

"Look at you," said Blaise proudly. "Five Galleons says Toria did your makeup."

"You would win," laughed Daphne, "because she did."

"That's a Gladrags face, and it's a good thing, too, because Gladrags faces are perfection, sweetie." Blaise kissed her on the cheek. "Two old friends, getting married today. It's really too good to be true."

But he met Story's eyes, and when Neil was congratulating Daphne, she saw the sadness in his face. He hid it well.

"I was reading your guest list," he said casually, by way of safe conversation. "All sorts of people. Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy were granted special permission to come, with an Auror escort."

"Is Draco with them?"

Blaise looked at her for a moment, his face unreadable, and then he said casually, "No, he's still in Europe, as far as I know. I think he's been up in Russia and Ukraine and the like."

Story was surprised at the sudden feeling of disappointment that welled up in her gut.

"Do you know what day it is, Toria?" he added quietly.

Story took a deep breath. "One year. Did you think I could forget?"

"I thought you must have, when they announced the wedding for this day."

"It wasn't conscious," said Story softly. "They forgot. Likely they'll remember in a week or so, and then they'll feel guilty. I visited the grave yesterday and left a bouquet of lilies."

She met her friend's dark eyes squarely. "I'm all right though, Blaise. Really, I am."

He studied her, and then he said quietly, "I still want to kill the bastard, though."

Story smiled sympathetically- it wasn't at all a nice smile. "Perfectly understandable."

Maura and Elyse returned, and introductions were made again; the bridesmaids had met Blaise and Neil briefly at the bachelorette party. Story had been in charge of organizing the party and had asked Daphne if she could invite Blaise and Neil, because if they had been girls they would have been the bridesmaids, rather than Maura and Elyse. Daphne had agreed, despite Eugenia's objections- "It's not traditional!"- but she couldn't argue much after they had shown up holding hands.

And then Eugenia returned and shooed Blaise and Neil away, the wedding was going to start in half an hour and they wouldn't have good seats if they didn't hurry and get them! And did Astoria have another potion, because she was going to go simply crazy, and find one for Anneliese too, would you, because she was going to drive _her_ crazy, and she was going to cry and how would they know when to leave?

Then Virgil came in and calmed Eugenia down, I'll take care of everything, I take Daphne downstairs anyway because that's my job, just go to your seat and calm down.

Maura and Elyse lined up at the door first, and Story was after them, and then Virgil and Daphne on his arm. The wedding was going to be in the garden, but they had to wait until Theodore and the groomsmen were outside before they could go down the stairs. Story didn't remember or care who the groomsmen were. She knew that he had not asked Blaise for an incredibly stupid reason.

Finally they went down the stairs and waited in the room that led out to the garden. Story could hear the sounds of the harpists- really, _harpists_?- playing a rippling, calming sort of tune as the suited figures took their places at the front.

And then the harpists began playing that song that was played at weddings, and Maura and Elyse glided out into the aisle, and a few beats later Story followed them, holding her bouquet and keeping her head tall. She managed to stare straight forwards without looking at Theodore, and wondered idly if he would look at her or at Daphne. She sincerely hoped he would be looking at Daphne.

She took her place off to the side and turned to watch as Virgil handed a beaming Daphne over to Theodore, then sat down. A short, tufty wizard stood before them, smiling, and then he cleared his throat and began to speak.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we are gathered here today to celebrate the union of two faithful souls..."

Story didn't pay attention. She watched her sister. She wanted to turn around and look for Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy and their Auror guard- she might recognize a few of the Aurors. And maybe- she was getting better at admitting this sort of thing to herself, after solidly denying it for ten years- maybe Blaise was wrong and Draco was here.

But she knew better than to look. She forced herself to listen to the tufty wizard. After all, your sister getting married didn't happen every day.

"Do you, Theodore Bastien, take Daphne Octavia..."

She watched her sister, and only her sister. Daphne was crying, tears of happiness. Story had to smile at her sister. Daphne was genuinely happy. At some point she must have learned to care deeply for Nott.

She could only hope that he would endeavor to deserve her. Daphne deserved to be happy, so Story would never tell him that he did not deserve Daphne, even though it was the truth.

"Do you, Daphne Octavia, take Theodore Bastien..."

She did not look at Theodore. Daphne was beautiful. She looked like an angel of the sun, with her golden-brown curls, the color of glossy honey. Story didn't know if she believed in any kind of god, but she did believe in angels.

"...then I declare you bonded for life."

The tufty wizard waved his wand over Theodore and Daphne's joined hands, and a shower of stars sprinkled down onto them. There was a kiss, and everybody clapped. Story clapped, too. She didn't feel much like clapping.

As the ceremony transitioned into the reception, Story hugged her sister.

"I won't make you hug me," said Theodore, still not quite looking at her eyes, "but shake hands, for old time's sake?"

Story shook his hand as briefly as she could. There were hugs and kisses, and there was crying and laughter, and all she wanted to do was go upstairs into her room and take a very long nap.

But no, everyone had to dance. Story had to dance with the best man; he was a very nice and extremely boring fellow from Theodore's work at Gringotts named Patrick Delaney. She danced with him once, and then her dancing duties were over, so she walked over to the refreshments and got herself a glass of champagne.

"Have a headache, dear heart?" said Blaise wryly, appearing next to her as silently as a cat. She nearly dropped the champagne and swore at him.

He just laughed. "I'm not terribly pleased, either," he said, lowering his voice, "but I don't let it show so easily."

"If he asks me to dance I'll punch him in the face," whispered Story. "You'll plead my insanity at the Wizengamot case, yes?"

"With all my heart." Blaise waved to Neil, who was chatting pleasantly with Eugenia and Virgil.

"Does Neil... know?" asked Story.

Blaise shook his head. "I love him and everything," he said soberly, "so I have to protect him."

Story nodded. She understood that.

"Shall we dance, sweetheart?" said Blaise, his voice suddenly mocking. "I would go and dance with my own boyfriend, but I think that all of the conservative witches and wizards here would strongly disapprove of my sexual preference."

"Of that I have no doubt," said Story, wincing. "The thing about pureblooded wizards, and I know I am one so it sounds rather hypocritical, but they're rather backwards in everything, not just in their view on purity of blood. They don't accept anything different from what they already know." She followed Blaise onto the dance floor.

"Don't I know it," said Blaise. "My father was black, in case you didn't notice my spectacular olive complexion and dark eyes. My mother is ginger." He grinned at her. "So I'm neither black nor white, and the old, rich pureblood families think that I'm some kind of demon. Black purebloods they can stand. White purebloods they love. Proof of interracial relationships, like me, are the spawn of dementors as far as they're all concerned."

Story had to laugh at that.

After Blaise had danced with her, he and Neil went off to dance with Maura and Elyse and Story slipped inside, where some of the older witches and wizards had retired. Her parents and Mrs. Nott were still outside, because they had to be, but Story didn't care where she was supposed to be. The ceremony was done, anyway.

She spotted Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. They sat on a sofa next to each other. One Auror stood to either side of the sofa. Story didn't recognize either Auror. But nobody was speaking to Lucius or Narcissa, and they looked frightened. But being shut in one's own house for nearly four years would do that to anyone.

She went over to them. The Aurors glanced at her.

"May I?" she asked the Aurors, and they nodded.

Narcissa looked up at her. She was still a beautiful woman, though Story knew she was getting older. Both she and her husband had the fair hair traditional of the Malfoys, although Narcissa's hair was black on the undersides. Narcissa's eyes were also blue. The shape of them was similar to Draco's eyes, and she had to fight to keep from swallowing.

"Thank you for coming," she said, smiling. "We appreciate the effort. How have you been doing, Mrs. Malfoy?"

"We've been doing all right, thank you, Astoria," said Narcissa. Her voice was so soft that she had to lean forward to catch everything. "Thank your mother for inviting us. It's pleasant to leave the house for a change."

Story wanted to include Lucius in the conversation, but he was looking at his wife with an expression of- Story blinked- overwhelming tenderness.

"I don't know if it's rude to ask, but have you heard from Draco?" she found herself saying.

Narcissa smiled. "He doesn't write anybody but us, so it makes sense to ask," she said. "He doesn't write very often, either. He's actually said he may be home soon. He's in Germany at the moment."

"Do you write him often?"

"I write once a month," said Narcissa. "Lucius doesn't write. He's not much for writing letters- are you, my dear?" she said, turning to look at her husband.

He shook his head. "Not really, no," he said, and his voice was a little rough, Story could tell, from lack of use. "I never have been."

"Did you know Draco during school, Astoria?" asked Narcissa. Her hand wrapped around her husband's hand, and his fingers curled around her hand in return.

"Not very well," said Story. "I wish I had known him better. I'm two years younger, so I had my own friends." A lie, but with truth in it.

Narcissa nodded. "Yes, I think he knew Daphne better. I sent him an invitation, as I did when Gregory Goyle was married, but he didn't respond to it."

"Has he been in Europe for full four and a half years?"

Narcissa nodded. "He came home once," she said, "last year at Christmas. Really it was only five months ago. But he only stayed for an evening, and then he went back to Europe."

Story nodded.

Narcissa hesitated, then said quickly, "I know that Eugenia likes to host tea here, but if you would be willing to tell her- I would be grateful for her company, if she would care to visit me."

"I will tell her," said Story. "And I hope I'm not being terribly forward, but if she doesn't have time, would you mind if I came by myself?"

She was surprised by her own boldness, but she liked Narcissa Malfoy. There was something in the woman that reminded her of herself.

Narcissa gazed at her for a moment, clearly surprised, and then she smiled and said, "You are welcome at Malfoy Manor any time, Astoria."

Story smiled back and offered her hand to shake. Narcissa grasped it and shook once, then let go. Story got to her feet. "It was nice to talk with you, Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy. Thank you."

"You're welcome," said Narcissa. Lucius nodded.

Story went upstairs and went into her room. She locked herself in and changed into pajamas, wiping her makeup off. The sun had set, and the bride and groom would be sent off on their honeymoon pretty soon. She didn't feel like helping to see them off when she didn't want them married in the first place.

But she did feel oddly content. She didn't know if that was because Daphne was happy, at least, or if it was because the day she had been dreading for five months was finally over, or because she had managed to befriend Narcissa Malfoy, if not her these-days-quiet husband. She suspected it had mostly to do with the last one.


	15. Chapter 14: Visit

Chapter Fourteen: Visit

"Astoria," said Eugenia, poking her head into Story's room, "could you run some things over to Malfoy Manor for me?"

Story looked up from her book. "I just got home from work," she said, for the sake of argument. She had been home for an hour and she really wouldn't mind going to Malfoy Manor.

Eugenia sighed. "Narcissa lent us some things for the wedding decorations. I would take them back myself, but I have a great deal of thank-you cards to fill out, and I have to arrange dinner, and I have to find an outfit for tomorrow night's party. Speaking of which, do you plan on attending?"

"Not if I can help it," said Story, closing her book. "I will take those things over, though. What is it?"

"Twenty-five glass vases that we used for the centerpieces of the tables and the diamond punch bowl."

"I thought that was crystal."

"No, dear. It's also not something that we should keep forever."

Story sighed- mostly for effect again.

"Mrs. Malfoy likes you, dear, she was most impressed with you at the wedding. Said you were very friendly. I'm glad you spoke to _somebody_, at least- you vanished not twenty minutes into the reception and I was quite convinced that someone was deflowering you in the garden-"

"I'm going, I'm _going_, let me throw on some clothes," interrupted Story, standing up.

"All right, dear, just come downstairs for the things when you're ready and I'll send Narcissa a Floo telling her you'll be dropping by."

"If she asks me to tea," said Story, "I'll stay."

"Yes, yes, of course..." Eugenia wandered away from her room, leaving the door open. Story made a point of shutting it before walking back into her room for something to wear. She was in shorts and a tank top, and she felt that it wouldn't be quite proper to show up at Malfoy Manor attired as such. She found one of her favorite dresses, knee-length with half-sleeves and a modest neckline, grey silk. She remembered going to the Yule Ball and thinking that Tracey Davis's Parisian silk dress robes were quite fine. You could take that sort of thing home every day from the formal section of Gladrags.

She brushed her hair and slipped into heels. She spotted the strand of pearls, a gift from her father, on the corner of the dresser. She hesitated, then looped them around her neck. She went downstairs.

The vases were laid out on a table, and the large diamond punch bowl sat next to it. Story thought that making a punch bowl out of diamonds was slightly extravagant, but the Malfoys could afford it. She tapped each of the vases with her wand and they shrank down to fit inside of the punch bowl. She then tapped the punch bowl, and it shrank, along with the vases, to fit in the palm of her hand.

"There you are," said Eugenia. "I just sent Narcissa the Floo, she said she's quite all right if you drop by. You know how to get there?"

Story nodded. "I shouldn't be too long, unless she offers me tea and then I'll stay a while. See you soon."

She Disapparated and after a moment of confusion in the Apparition, she found herself in the woods on a quiet lane. She could see the cast-iron gates of Malfoy Manor ahead. The woods here weren't friendly, like the trees around Summervale. They were tall and slightly ominous. At the same time she knew that she was quite safe.

She walked towards the gates; as she approached, two Aurors suddenly winked into existence. "Name and business?" one of them asked.

"Astoria Greengrass, returning things borrowed from the Manor for my sister's wedding," said Story, refusing to lose her aplomb.

"Let her in, please," said Narcissa's voice suddenly; it seemed to issue from the gates. "Her mother sent me a Floo, I'm expecting her."

The Auror's nodded. "Walk right in, miss," they said.

"Are you going to open the gate?"

"If she's said you can come in, you can walk right through."

Story tried it, and found that she melted through the gates like smoke. She walked up the gravel driveway. Tall hedges lined it on either side. She listed to one side of the driveway and sniffed at them; the scent of yew filled her nose. She heard a rustling and glanced up; a pale albino peacock strutted quietly along the top of the hedge.

She could hear a fountain in the distance as she stepped up the stone steps to the front door. She raised her wand hand and knocked.

The door opened almost immediately. A house-elf squeaked, "Come in, Miss," and she stepped inside.

The hallway she was in was large, with a wine-red carpet covering most of the floor. The walls were stone. Portraits hung around the room.

"This way, Miss," said the elf. "Mistress Malfoy is waiting for you in the drawing room."

Story followed the elf through the hallway and up the short staircase at the end of it. They walked through a large library- Story wished she could explore the library- and passed Lucius Malfoy, who blinked at the sight of them and nodded briefly to Story before returning to the book he was reading.

The drawing room was a large, open, airy room. Story liked it at once. A wrought-iron chandelier hung from the ceiling, a different color than the rest of the furniture in the room. Narcissa sat at a table by the fireplace, pouring tea into two cups.

"I hope you'll stay for tea," she said, and though her face remained merely pleasant, Story could hear something of anxiety in her voice. "Eugenia said you might."

"I would love to stay for tea," said Story warmly.

Narcissa smiled. She indicated the seat opposite her.

"What should I do with these? I shrunk them down for transport," said Story, showing her the diamond bowl and the tiny vases inside."

Narcissa tapped her wand four times on a small bell on the table. There was a moment's pause, and then four house-elves appeared in unison, hands clasped and heads down.

"These are the twenty-five vases we lent to the Greengrass family and the diamond punch bowl," said Narcissa. "Put them away, please."

"Yes, Mistress." The elves took the bowl and vases and left.

"Do you take cream or sugar?" asked Narcissa.

"One of each," said Story, "thank you."

Narcissa took sugar but no cream. Story sipped her tea. It was very good.

"May I ask you something?" said Narcissa.

Story nodded.

"Why do you befriend me?"

Story was taken aback. She hadn't expected the question to come up. Narcissa's eyes were not angry or suspicious, however; just inquisitive.

"Well," she said slowly, and rather unwillingly, "it's a little awkward."

She was so tired of lying.

Narcissa nodded. "If it's about Draco, then I can't tell you much," she said sympathetically. "I've had a lot of young ladies here for tea on Draco's behalf. Some of them I invited. Some of them rather... invited themselves."

"It might be a little bit about him," said Story, not able to look at Narcissa. She was a little bit embarrassed now. "A very little bit. I haven't any right to think that way, really, not when I have a boyfriend who's been dead for a year." She swallowed and added, "It was little- he was kind to me once while we were at Hogwarts. I was twelve, and rather impressionable, I daresay. But I was curious about yourself and Mr. Malfoy, as well. Mother hasn't mentioned visiting you often, and I'm under no doubts as to the nature of Anneliese Nott visiting."

Narcissa's lip curled thinly above her teacup. "You don't enjoy Anneliese's company, either?"

"I enjoy baiting her, honestly," said Story. "I'm extremely glad I'm not the one who married her son. We would get on horribly."

She had surprised the older woman into a laugh.

"But noticing that neither my mother nor Mrs. Nott ever visited, I wondered if others had visited," said Story. "And I thought that even if there were others visiting, some might be rude, because it's not exactly a secret that your social status has been severely reduced since the war. And I thought that I would visit, because I don't think you should have to endure just rude visitors. You should have pleasant ones, too." She managed to look up.

Narcissa was staring at her, the blue eyes unfathomable.

Story felt fire sear across her cheeks. That had been embarrassing, and probably quite rude. She should just Disapparate before she said anything else stupid.

"You're the first pleasant visitor in four years," said Narcissa suddenly. "I suppose I'm not being entirely fair with you, Astoria. I slipped some extremely well-diluted Veritaserum in your tea. Not enough to make you dulled and hazy under the potion, but enough for you to be willing to be open with me. You could have lied, if you'd been desperate to hide something. But I don't think you were lying. I didn't mean to interrogate you, or for this to feel like I was questioning your motives. I just-" She stopped speaking, then set her teacup down with hands that shook. "The wars have never been pleasant. Lucius has been caught up by promises of money, and power. He didn't wish it for himself. He wished it for the safety and protection that it could offer for me at first, and then Draco, when he was born. There have been changes. I was once a prisoner in this house, made so by the Dark Lord, and for Lucius and Draco and I to be trapped here with Bella whispering her sycophantic platitudes in our ears- Lucius and I have both realized that for one's family to be safe is far more important." She swallowed. "Please forgive me, Astoria. It was a violation of your rights for me to give you Veritaserum. But I just wanted to ensure that my family's safety was not violated by your motives for befriending me. I know better now."

Story shook her head. "I don't mind," she said, and she really didn't. "Family is important, Mrs. Malfoy. I understand that."

"I am glad that you do," said Narcissa. "You won't ever let anyone manipulate your family."

Story thought of Nott and cringed, and then realized that she had allowed that to show on her face. Now Narcissa was staring at her.

"I'm sorry," said Story. She sighed. "I've been having issues with that thought lately."

"Have you?" said Narcissa. "Have some more tea- in a new cup, so there's no Veritaserum in it. You don't have to tell me if you would rather not, however."

Story closed her eyes. She could tell some of the truth to Narcissa. Not all of it, but certainly some. "I have had to... allow the manipulation of my family members in order to protect them from what would do them great harm."

"Then you have still protected your family," said Narcissa. "All of your family members but you? Does this have to do with the felicitations that occurred in your home last week?"

She was quick, Story had to admire that. "Yes," she said. "Theodore and I have had a rocky relationship since my second year in Hogwarts."

"The same year in which my son showed you a kindness?"

Story nodded. "The Yule Ball," she said, smiling wryly, "was a great source of drama."

"I'm told a great deal of the matches these days stemmed from it," said Narcissa. "Perhaps they ought to have them more often, like the parties."

Story grimaced. "Please, no."

Narcissa laughed again. There was something wolfish about it. "I rather enjoy the parties. I don't tell just anyone this- only Draco knows, in fact- but I've read some Muggle literature, recommended to me by a friend at Flourish and Blotts. There's an author, a young lady named Austen-"

"I know Jane Austen," said Story. "I began reading her at the recommendation of my boyfriend, as a matter of fact. He worked at Flourish and Blotts, too."

Narcissa smiled. "Now I _know_ we'll be friends. But I used to go to the parties and watch everyone, and it was just like any party from Miss Austen's books, except with magic and two hundred years in the future."

Story considered it. "I never thought of them that way," she admitted. "Families trying to marry off children- I suppose it is rather similar. Does your husband know you read Miss Austen?"

"Heavens, no. I don't plan on telling him, either. I rather like to keep the library from being burnt down."

"It would be a sin against magic to burn your library down, Mrs. Malfoy."

Narcissa nodded. "And anyway, I personally believe that all books are a form of magic, regardless of whom they were written by."

"That's an admirable sentiment," said Story, impressed. "Would you mind terribly if I adopted that one for myself?"

"Not at all," said Narcissa. She smiled lightly. "I never had a daughter, and you know as well as I that sisters can be most trying people. I have attempted to regain the affections of my third sister, but she has not yet been forthcoming. She is raising her orphaned grandson, so I supposed that I should not be offended by her lack of response. And Bella and I were most cruel to her..." She trailed off, looking lost, then said suddenly, "I apologize, I was rambling. What I meant to say is that I have not, in some time, had a sister or a daughter or really any sort of female friend. I appreciate your company."

Story was touched. "Thank you," she said. "I appreciate your company as well. Mother and Daphne are very similar. I am more like my father."

"You are very like your father," said Narcissa. "Virgil went to school with me. Lucius was a few years older than I was at the time. And your mother was a year younger than us. She-" Narcissa chuckled. "Eugenia had a crush on Virgil from her very first year in Hogwarts. And she was very persistent, I will allow her that, because she got him in the end."

"I didn't know that," said Story, laughing. "How funny!"

"Virgil and I were very good friends," said Narcissa, her voice full of reminiscence. "I was always rather dignified in school, but one time Virgil and I put snakes in Bella's and Andi's beds."

Story clapped her hand to her mouth to cover the undignified laughter. She couldn't imagine her father doing anything so devious. Narcissa laughed, too. "They were furious," she said. "And they suspected me, but they were never able to prove it, and by the time they had the capability, both of them had forgotten the incident." She sighed, a smile on her face. "Even though we went to school just before the first Wizarding war, those were better times than we have had recently."

There was a quiet for a few moments, and then Story said, "You can tell me about those memories." She allowed herself to half-smile. "Mother always pretends she can't remember any of it, and Father's usually too busy. I do like hearing about what others did at Hogwarts."

"Because you find it amusing or because your Hogwarts experience was different?"

"Both," said Story.

The older woman's eyebrows arched in interest. "Then you had better prepare to hear a lot of youthful pranks and tales of mischief, Astoria. Your father was quite the trickster."

It began to rain outside, and Story was surprised to see that the sun had gone down. She had been at Malfoy Manor for several hours.

"It will have to wait until next time," she said apologetically. "My mother will be coming to collect me if I don't go now. I would like to come to tea again. Tomorrow's not good, because there's a party and Mother wants me to go-"

"You don't want to, I observe," said Narcissa, rising as Story did.

"Not really, no," said Story, "but now that I have the ideas of Jane Austen to draw upon in amusement, I suppose that it will be more bearable."

"I find you similar to Elinor Dashwood," said Narcissa. "Intelligent and practical."

"That makes Daphne stand in for Marianne, and you've no idea how accurate the comparison is," said Story.

They walked out through the library. Narcissa passed her husband with a smile and a wave; he, in a gesture that was almost too affectionate to equate with Story's idea of Lucius Malfoy, placed his hand to his lips and offered his hand, smiling back. Narcissa pretended to catch the blown kiss.

"I hope we don't seem overtly amorous to you," said Narcissa, as they descended down the short staircase.

"I hope you're not attempting to apologize for being in love with your husband, because that's a waste of an apology," said Story. "I find your affection refreshing."

She didn't say that it reminded her a little bit of herself and Eogan- but there was something sweeter, more wholesome, about Narcissa and Lucius. They had a relationship of long-standing acquaintance, and like most pureblood marriages it had probably been half arranged- but for all that, they were both old friends and new lovers.

She hoped she could be with someone like that some day.

She shook Narcissa's hand and turned to the door. Lightning flashed through the windows.

And suddenly the door burst open, and there stood a soaking-wet figure in long black travelling robes.

Narcissa's wand was out and she was in front of Story before she could even move. "Who are you?" she demanded.

A voice familiar and yet new emitted from under the hood. "Relax, Mother, it's your pride and joy. Don't hex me."

The figure pulled his hood off, and Draco Malfoy stood there, his hair wet even under the hood, his eyes a little wild, stubble on his face and something bone-weary in it, too.

Story felt her heart stop a little bit, and then felt it start again, in a slightly faster gear. She also felt as though she were intruding on something incredibly private, because after a moment of staring, Narcissa rushed forwards and clasped her son to herself, soaking wet and all.

"Draco," she said, and there was exasperation in her voice, "you could _write_ and tell us you're coming home."

"It was kind of on a whim," he said, looking around the hall. "I got tired of Germany. Someone pegged me for a white supremacist and I had a falling out with every pub in Berlin because of it, so I came home. For good, this time."

"You came home because you couldn't get drunk in Germany? Well, now I feel loved."

"I missed you, too, of course."

Story edged out around Draco and Narcissa. If she could slip away without them noticing-

"Astoria," said Narcissa suddenly, "don't think you're leaving without a proper good-bye."

"I'm intruding," said Story.

Both mother and son turned to look at her.

"Astoria Greengrass?" said Draco. "You _have_ grown up, haven't you?"

And just like a silly, childish schoolgirl, she felt the pink tinge back into her cheeks. "I daresay I have," she said, and was annoyed to hear her voice sounding crisp, and old-fashioned. _You've talked to boys before, you idiot- don't mess it up now just because it's Draco Malfoy. _"I really must be going now, Mrs. Malfoy- good evening. Draco."

"If you can't come tomorrow, will Monday suit?" said Narcissa. "I'll be eager to hear how the party went, if you go."

"Monday it is. Thank you for the tea, and everything," and before she could embarrass herself further, Story hurried out of the door, through the pouring rain, until she reached the gate of Malfoy Manor and ran straight through. When she was out on the road, the Aurors didn't appear, so she simply Disapparated back to Summervale.

"Where have you been?" exclaimed her mother. "You're soaking wet, look at the sight of you-"

"It's raining in Wiltshire, and you can't Disapparate on the property of Malfoy Manor," said Story. She knew that her cheeks were flushed and her breathing was too fast but she hoped that her mother would just think she had been running. "Sorry. I stayed to tea. Mrs. Malfoy is so kind. She sends her respects." Narcissa hadn't actually said anything of the kind, but Story knew rather than figured her to be that kind of person.

"Hmm. I'll have to visit her sometime," said Eugenia. "She's always been an elegant woman."

Story was bursting to tell someone- tell anyone- that Draco was home. She couldn't just blurt it out to her mother, though. Her mother was not the sort of person one told secrets to. "I'm going to go change," she said. "Have we had dinner yet?"

"No, we decided to wait for you, so hurry, please," said Eugenia.

Story went upstairs to her room and changed out of her things, throwing on jeans and a T-shirt. Her hair was still wet. She dried it, brushed it again, and braided it.

Something tapped at the window. Story squinted at the owl and opened the window, enough for the bird to come in.

It stuck out its leg. She took what was fastened there and the accompanying note.

_Miss Greengrass:_

_I beg your pardon for interrupting your visit with my mother. It was entirely unintentional._

_I wanted to let you know that I am grateful to you for your kindness to her. She has had _

_few friends since the end of the war, and your company means a great deal to her. As far as_

_I have been able to tell, she thinks very highly of you despite the short length of your_

_acquaintance. And this means a lot to me, too._

_Sincerely yours,_

_Draco Malfoy_

For a long moment, Story thought that she might faint. Instead, she numbly opened her jewelry box and folded the letter up into a very small square. Then she closed the box on the letter and sealed it shut with a private spell. The owl had already gone.

She was left with the rose, which had accompanied the note. It was a white rose, not quite in bloom. She conjured a thin vase and filled it with water, then set the rose inside. She went down to dinner.

But that night, she dreamed, and for the first time in a year and a half, it was not a nightmare.


	16. Chapter 15: Observations

Chapter Fifteen: Observations

Story knew that it was very unlikely that Draco Malfoy would come to the party. The traditions of the parties dictated that the parents had to come to the parties, too. In fact, it would have been more appropriate for Narcissa and Lucius to come without Draco than for him to come by himself. And since Narcissa and Lucius were rarely allowed to leave their home, it was very unlikely that Draco would attend the party. And he had only gotten home the day before. No, it was not at all likely. In fact, it was impossible.

And then she realized that she sounded like a Jane Austen novel, and promptly told herself that she didn't care if Draco Malfoy came, because she had to watch everyone at the party so she could tell Narcissa about them on Monday.

She went downstairs in her finery. She wore a navy-blue gown. Her mother wore yellow. Her father was still working. If he came, he would arrive late.

It was Story's first real party. She had heard about them from Daphne, and had decided she had heard all she needed or wanted to know- but then Daphne had gotten married, and Story knew that even though she was only twenty her mother would start hounding her about getting married soon, if Story didn't make an effort. This would be her effort.

She arrived with her mother at the house belonging to Terence Higgs. She hadn't known Terence very well during school, but Daphne had been passingly acquainted with him. Terence was quite handsome and somewhat egotistical, as far as she could tell. His mother smiled fawningly at Eugenia and Story as they entered, and as Story removed the white silk shawl that she had thrown over her shoulders, people stared at her. _Well_, thought Story wryly, _I am quite tall, especially in these heels_.

Her mother squeezed her hand. "I'll leave you to enjoy yourself," she said warmly.

"You could just tell me to go find a husband," returned Story, "but I take your meaning perfectly."

Eugenia smiled and sighed at the same time. "Have fun, Astoria." And then she was gone, leaving Story by herself.

She folded the shawl in her hands almost unconsciously as she walked around the edge of the room. The orchestra was playing a waltz, and couples were gliding gracefully over the floor.

"Well, look at you!"

She turned and smiled at the familiar voice. "I thought you didn't believe in these things," she said to Blaise.

"I don't," he said. "But Terence is an old friend, and I, er, broke up with Neil." His eyes shifted away.

"Blaise Zabini, you never," said Story, shocked.

"I found him with another man the other day," said Blaise gloomily. "I yelled at him a lot, he yelled back and cried right there in front of me, the other fellow looked appalled that the person he'd been snogging had a boyfriend, and then I stomped off in anger and went home and did a little crying, myself." He looked at Story and smiled crookedly. "And at the very least, we can sit here and gossip about all of the people here."

Story smiled. "I'll settle for just watching them do silly things in the name of getting married."

"Marriage is overrated," said Blaise, "in general. My mother did it a lot."

"She gets gossiped about a lot."

"Not all of the stories are true," said Blaise. "She only killed her husband once, and that was in self-defense. I don't remember which one it was, either. But that's a depressing topic. Let's talk about how Scarlett Lympsham looks like a lesbian with that haircut."

Story glanced over in the direction of Blaise's nod. Scarlett had shorn off most of her hair; it was short and boyish, but it suited her delicate features. "She looks nice," she said to Blaise.

Blaise sighed. "I can't speak ill to you of _anyone_, can I?"

"I didn't say she looked like she had reformed and become a nice person, did I?"

He chuckled. "Ever the sly one. Shall we dance, little one? We can spy on people and cause them to question my homosexuality."

Story laughed. "With pleasure."

They joined the waltzing couples. Story felt a rather indecent pleasure in seeing the look on Scarlett's and Pansy's faces as she whirled around the room with Blaise.

But evidently there had been a lot of people watching her, because after the song was finished she was crowded by boys asking her to dance. She accepted the first one to ask every time a song ended, but that just taught them to follow her progress around the room and linger nearby at the end of a song.

She was a good dancer, light on her feet. Not all of her partners were as excellent dancers as Blaise. Terence Higgs wasn't half bad, but a few of them were just plain awful at it.

After about an hour of not sitting down she claimed fatigue. Some of the boys following her around got her champagne and found her a place to sit. She sat and laughed at their pathetic jokes and thought of Eogan and how he had been able to make her laugh with his awkward gallantry, and Blaise's dry, cynical wit, and the humor of Draco Malfoy that she wasn't entirely sure she understood yet. She smiled at people and enjoyed herself, but she held herself back from the experience. She was still watching all of them.

At the end of the evening she detached herself from the admirers and went home with her mother, smiling and waving.

"Thank you," said Eugenia.

"For what?"

"For going and cooperating." Her mother met her eyes as they walked back into Summervale Hall. "I know you don't like these sorts of things."

"I find them pointless," said Story, leaning down to kiss her mother on the cheek, "but I'll go if it will make you happy."

"I appreciate that."

Story went up to her room and gazed out the window for a moment, a little forlornly. It had been silly of her to even think that Draco Malfoy would be there at all. And he meant nothing to her, nothing beyond the usual bounds of friendship. Nothing. And when he came back, Pansy or Scarlett would get him, anyway. He was not for her, not for Daphne's quiet little sister.

The next day she went to Malfoy Manor for tea. The same house-elf led her back through the library, once again passing Lucius Malfoy. He nodded to her, and she nodded back.

Narcissa was waiting for her with a smile and the tea. "No Veritaserum today, I promise," she said, pouring the tea and adding one spoonful of cream and one spoonful of sugar.

Story accepted her cup and stirred. "Thank goodness for that. I was worried there for a moment."

Narcissa laughed. "Sarcasm! Oh, you are a delight. I almost thought you were too good to be true, and now I _know_ you are."

"Sarcasm is a lost art," said Story. "If you use it with people who aren't close to you, they just think you're being rude. You have to have friends for sarcasm to work."

"True," agreed Narcissa. "And yet I take a personal impish delight in being sarcastic when I know people won't understand me."

There was a knock at the door. Both Narcissa and Story turned. Draco stood at the door.

"I think I missed lunch," he said. His hair was for once not perfectly done, and he wore plaid pajama bottoms and a grey beater under the robe. He also still had the scruff around his chin that had been present during his arrival. Story had to repress the thought that he looked extremely attractive.

"Well, get dressed and wander down to the kitchen, you're in your pajamas and I have a guest," said Narcissa pleasantly.

Draco glanced down at his own clothing, surprised. "Oh," he said. "I hadn't noticed."

"Yes, dear, I'm sure you didn't."

He vanished.

"He's been sleeping a lot during the day," said Narcissa. "Evidently the nightlife in Europe has made him nocturnal. But he reads during the night, when everyone else is in bed like they should be. Now, tell me, how was the party?"

Story smiled. "I watched everyone dance, and I danced myself," she said. "It's interesting to watch people. If I were Elinor Dashwood, I walked into the dance and found myself watching all kinds of Lucy Steeles."

"Who in particular?" asked Narcissa.

"Scarlett Lympsham has never liked me. Neither has Pansy Parkinson." Story took a sip of tea. "A friend of mine says it's because they're jealous, what with the modeling and the boyfriend and those things. Do you get the Daily Prophet?"

"I do," said Narcissa. "Lucius doesn't read it anymore- he's stopped caring about what goes on in the world- but I have read about you in the papers. I must say that Miss Parkinson and Miss Skeeter have both been inclined to treat you rather..." Her voice trailed off as she searched for a word.

"As though I were a whore of some sort," said Story calmly. "I'm not offended. If you've seen the catalogue spreads, you'll know that I know how to dress and wear makeup, and having a boyfriend over the space of two years has taught me a lot about flirting with a boy. Pansy learned about it well before I did, and I don't think Rita Skeeter's any stranger to bargaining for information with things other than money."

Narcissa chuckled. "That's always been my opinion of them. There was a lot of speculation about what she wrote between the Triwizard Tournament and the Battle of Hogwarts, or rather, the lack of what she wrote, but after the book on Dumbledore, it all became rather nasty. Towards everyone."

"She really doesn't like me at all," said Story ruefully. "If I ever date again, there will be speculation about it in the papers. You'll probably get the real story, though."

"Thank you," said Narcissa. "Now that I know you, I did worry about what was written in the papers a little bit. You were briefly mentioned in the society column this morning."

"I saw," said Story, grinning. "Pansy must have been quite jealous of my dress, if she were to go so far as to claim that it was only my outfit that caused me to be such an unmitigated success."

Narcissa threw back her head and laughed for a long time. "I can't remember when I've had such fun," she said. "Draco brought her around to the house a few times, you know, and we used to have little parties for his friends during the summers. I couldn't stand her. She was a horrible little thing. But speaking of your outfit, what did you wear?"

Story described her dress. Narcissa nodded.

"I know it was for your job, but I remember thinking that every time you had a spread in the paper, that you looked very well put together, even after-" She paused for a moment. "Er, even after your boyfriend's death."

"You can talk about it," said Story. "I'm not exactly in mourning."

Narcissa looked relieved. "I wasn't sure if it was a sensitive topic."

"Eight months ago it might have been, but I'm better now."

"Mourning for someone you love isn't exactly worse."

"No," agreed Story, "but I was doing it the unhealthy way."

She took a deep breath. Narcissa waited. Story appreciated that about the older woman.

"After I lost him, I was... bitter, I suppose. Not sad exactly, though generally I suppose I was. And I wouldn't call it grief, either, because I did love him, but it wasn't a deep, abiding love. Not the sort of love you clearly have with your husband. It was... anger, at his killer- there was a lot of that. And I kept dwelling in the times we had. I even bought a Pensieve. I watched the memories." She closed her eyes. "It wasn't healthy. I stopped working, stopped sleeping, stopped eating even. Blaise helped- he made sure I ate things when he could, but I usually ended up throwing them up. And I had pneumonia at one point. It- it was bad."

"What made you turn around?" said Narcissa gently.

Story reached up and touched the white streak. "This," she said. "I woke up one morning and it was just- there. I hadn't even noticed it arrive. And then Blaise came, and I told him that I needed help. And he helped me. I owe my life to Blaise. He's probably my best friend."

Narcissa nodded. "Did he ever express a romantic interest in you?" she inquired.

Story laughed. "No. He is a practicing homosexual."

"I see," said Narcissa. "The only person I ever knew who was like that was Albus Dumbledore."

Story nearly spat out her tea.

"Oh, yes," said Narcissa reflectively. "He wasn't practicing, I don't think, but he definitely was. If he had been straight he would have married Minerva McGonagall."

"She was devoted to her husband who died three weeks after they got married," said Story. "But I didn't tell you that, and I definitely didn't overhear it in my fourth year when she was talking to Professor Sprout about it in the staff room. But now that you mention, about Professor Dumbledore... there are some things that indicated that, which I wouldn't have noticed at the time."

"Such as?"

"The high-heeled boots," said Story, "and the overfondness for the color purple. Not that that color specifically indicates one's sexual preference, but most wizards prefer blue or green as a choice for robes."

"I like black better," said Draco Malfoy, walking in, his hands in his pockets. He wore all black now, and his hair had been combed. The stubble on his cheeks and chin was still there, though. "May I join you?"

"It's just us girls," said Narcissa. "Go beg a sandwich off the house-elves. When was the last time you ate?"

"Oh, I don't know. Before I went to bed."

"Which was when?"

"Around five this morning."

Narcissa rolled her eyes. Story fought the urge to giggle. "And you woke up when?"

"About two this afternoon." He was utterly unashamed of his answer, his hands still in his pockets, smiling, being- she had to admit it- quite charming. "Please, Mother? I promise to be nice to Miss Greengrass."

"It's not you being nice I'm worried about," said Narcissa dryly. "I'm just afraid you'll eat all of the pastry that Elly should have brought up by now. Elly!"

A house-elf appeared at once. "Yes, Mistress?"

"Are the pastries ready yet?"

"They are nearly ready, Mistress."

"Good. Thank you."

Elly disappeared.

Draco flicked his wand, and a third chair appeared facing the fireplace, between Story and Narcissa. "I'll be very, very good, Mother."

"It's clear that you're going to stay no matter how much I scold you," said Narcissa. "We'll just be discussing you as a small child, and the scrapes you got into, and all of the times I changed your nappy when you were a baby."

"Excellent. I'll be glad to provide you with commentary." Draco seated himself. "Were you discussing robes before? How very typical of your gender."

"Don't be sexist, darling, it's bad for you," said Narcissa briskly, conjuring another teacup and pouring. "Cream or sugar?"

"One of each," said Draco. "Miss Greengrass is being very quiet. How are you, Miss Greengrass?"

Story smiled. "I'm doing quite well, and I'm being very entertained by the stories of your scrapes as a small child."

He chuckled. "Well, you ought to provide us with some of your childhood scrapes, go on."

"When I was four I broke into my father's stables and stole a horse," said Story. "I rode five miles before they missed me and went looking for me. After that my father stopped keeping horses." She took a sip of tea.

Draco burst out laughing. "Well, I never did anything _quite_ that adventurous."

"Neither did I," said Story, "I made it up."

"Well, that was cheating," said Narcissa, "but you'll noticed that Draco asked you for a story to distract me from telling you one about him. I had better rectify that." Draco groaned dramatically, but Story could tell he was enjoying himself.

She watched him a lot that afternoon, in fact. He had always been something of a braggart, as she remembered him at Hogwarts, though less in the later years she had known him. He spoke expressively, with his hands. She remembered when he told stories about Harry Potter being scared of dementors, or about breaking Potter's nose. She hadn't liked the stories themselves, but he had used his hands so cleverly that she had been entertained, in spite of herself. He had a confident laugh and he usually seemed to be smiling. Story wondered if there was a facade at all in that smile. And she watched Narcissa, too; Narcissa was always guarded, but she seemed to let some of that go with Draco, as though she didn't need to shield herself as much.

Mostly she watched Draco, though, and she watched his eyes, because she remembered noticing his eyes when she had been in school. They had always been sharp grey, a lighter color, but they had gotten darker with time, just a little. It was strange, that she remembered the shade of his eyes so precisely- or perhaps it was not strange at all. And they had used to be very happy, even carefree, and always with a hint of the Malfoy pride in them. Then he had been hurting, during her fourth year and his sixth year- she still wasn't quite sure why, although she knew it had a lot to do with the death of Professor Dumbledore. And then when he had come back to Hogwarts after Christmas and Easter of fifth year, there had been something... haunted. Something hurting, something broken. And the Malfoy pride had not been there. He had just been lost.

And now she couldn't read those eyes. She wasn't sure if he had spent four years learning how to guard them or if she had just become very bad at reading people's eyes. Usually she was very good at it, but she was getting no emotion from Draco Malfoy's eyes. Humor, certainly. More than a little sarcasm- and maybe if she looked for long enough she could see bitter and mocking, but she couldn't look long enough because every time he blinked she had to start over, and she couldn't just sit there and stare at his eyes the whole time.

She wouldn't have minded it, though.

Eventually Narcissa brought the subject back around to the party. Draco listened interestedly as he ate one of the pastries that Elly had brought. Story described the dancers and told them about Blaise and Terence Higgs. She didn't mention Pansy. She didn't want to mention Pansy to Draco Malfoy.

"I hear most of my year-mates are married or spoken for," said Draco. "Gregory and Millie, am I right?"

"I sent you the invitation, silly," said Narcissa. "And Astoria's sister Daphne- you knew Daphne, didn't you?- was married only a week and a half ago to Theodore Nott."

"Huh," said Draco. "I was always sure Nott was crazy about _you_, Miss Greengrass."

Story wanted to die with embarrassment, but she merely said, "Not really," before changing the subject. They did not mention Tracey or Vincent, and Story had already mentioned Blaise and his sexuality in the course of the conversation. Pansy was also avoided. She wondered if it was because he didn't like Pansy or if it was because he did.

Eventually she had to leave. Narcissa and Draco walked her to the door, and then as she was leaving, Narcissa said, "Be a gentleman, Draco, and walk Miss Greengrass to the gate. Some of the Muggle boys from the village have been hanging around, and I don't much like the look of them."

"Certainly," said Draco, falling into step with her. Story was glad it was dark. He couldn't see how red her face must have been.

They had had plenty of things to say before, but now it was curiously quiet. It was a comfortable silence, however. Story was comfortable, and she felt as though Draco were comfortable.

Abruptly he said, "Did you get my note, Miss Greengrass?"

"Yes," said Story. She said nothing about the rose. She wouldn't mention it if he did. "Thank you."

"You're quite welcome. Mother has little female companionship. She's been investing a lot of interest in me and you've quite successfully distracted her from doing so whole-heartedly."

Story smiled. "I enjoy her company. My mother and sister were never much like this with me."

"No," he said musingly. "Daphne never seemed that close to you, as I remember."

She couldn't help but feel a little thrill- _he noticed me during the Hogwarts years_- but she merely replied, "We weren't close until recently, and then she got married."

"How did that work?" he said suddenly. "I was being gentle about it in front of Mother, but I shared a room with Nott. He kept a picture of you on his bedside table for seven years."

Story sighed. _Definitely on my list of need-to-know things_.

"What?"

Oh. She had said that aloud. "Sorry, I was just thinking aloud. I was never interested in Nott. I don't know where everyone got the idea that I was."

"Well," said Draco, "it's been my experience that when a girl expresses a lack of interest in a fellow, it's usually because she's interested in someone else. Who were you hung up on?"

"Nobody," said Story faintly. He had hit very near the mark there.

"I beg your pardon, that was rather personal. You get used to asking personal questions in Europe. It's how you make friends."

They had reached the gate. She passed through it and was about to Disapparate when he said, "Miss Greengrass."

She turned. He tossed something to her. She caught it, feeling the thorns scratch but not pierce her skin. "Thank you."

She nodded. "You're welcome." And then she Disapparated.

When she could see in the light of Summervale Hall, she looked at what he had given her. It was another rose. Still white. Still not quite in bloom. It joined the first in the vase.


	17. Chapter 16: The Return of Draco Malfoy

Chapter Sixteen: The Return of Draco Malfoy

Since the first party, Story had been to four other parties in three weeks and had visited Malfoy Manor seven times. She went every two or three days. Sometimes she skived off work and went early, eating lunch with Narcissa, and sometimes she came later for tea. Once they invited her to stay for dinner. She had to decline that invitation, because she had promised her mother she would be home in time for dinner, but she wished she could have stayed. Sometimes Draco joined them, and sometimes he darted in and out of the room in his pajamas to ask Narcissa questions. Story enjoyed listening to Narcissa gently tease her son, and his sharp replies back to her. He was always unfailingly polite to Story. Sometimes she teased him a little, which made Narcissa laugh, and he would joke back, but he never teased her the way he did his mother. He was always a strong presence in the room, louder than Story and Narcissa both, though he wasn't a loud person. He had had the reputation of being a bully at Hogwarts, but Story knew only too well that people rarely lived up to their reputations. He had not been kind to Potter and his friends, and he had shoved around other, younger students. She knew that this was hardly excusable behavior. But seeing the way he was so gentle with his mother made her pause in that line of judgment. And she was younger than he was- but he had never been foul to her. And now that she thought about it, he had only rarely been cruel to girls in general. It was usually boys.

And every time she visited Malfoy Manor, Draco would either walk her out to the gate and present her with a white rose in not-quite-bloom, or he would send one by owl with an accompanying note. She collected them in the vase on her dresser. The first one she had gotten had bloomed in the center of the buds. Saidy watered them every day for her, and added a little bit of a fertilizing potion from the garden shed.

"Who gives Miss the roses?" asked Saidy. "Miss always gets a new one after she goes to Wiltshire."

"Draco Malfoy," answered Story. She had grown fond of Saidy. She told Saidy about her visits to Malfoy Manor and about the parties, and in return Saidy had been persuaded to tell her about the boy elf who brought her presents on Sunday afternoons. House-elves, discovered Story, while they didn't wear clothes, did love blankets. This elf had made Saidy a quilt from Virgil Greengrass's old silk socks. Story thought the idea enchanting. If someone had made her a quilt, she might possibly love them forever.

And one Sunday afternoon, when Story was recovering from having gone to a party the night before, someone flew upstairs and burst into her room, and it was her mother and she was gasping, "Astoria Christabel- you never said a word-"

"Slow down, Mum, what did I do?" said Story, closing her book.

"Mrs. Malfoy and her son- coming to visit- got the owl five minutes ago- house's in a right state-"

"When?" Story jumped upright.

"Half an hour!" said Eugenia.

"Well, go put a dress on and start cleaning!" said Story. "I'll change and help you, too."

She was a little stressed by the lack of warning, but she was secretly pleased and flattered. She grabbed a dress at random, braided her hair up into a knot at the crown of her head, and raced downstairs, shooting Scouring Charms everywhere the Malfoys might see. The house wasn't really that messy, but it was a Sunday, and Monday was the day for a general cleaning of the house, done by Eugenia and the house-elves and Story, if she was around. She spotted four elves hurriedly polishing the chandelier, and she darted into the tea room. It was impeccable. She went to the kitchen and found that the tea was being made that very moment, and then she continued to clean, and a few minutes at the very end when everything was sparkling she went upstairs and cleaned her room. She didn't expect Draco or Narcissa to see her room, but she cleaned it anyway, because it needed cleaning and she had time.

And then, as she was closing the door of her room she heard her mother call, in a much calmer voice, "Astoria, come down for tea. We have guests."

"Yes, mother, just a moment," she called back, and after waiting a few seconds, she took a deep breath- no point in letting them see how nervous their unexpected visit made her- and walked slowly down the stairs. She made sure to check her reflection in the hallway mirror- she looked fine- before she entered the tea room.

Narcissa sat in the chairs with Eugenia, and they were placidly speaking; Draco sat on the couch, seemingly bored. When Story came in he saw her and straightened up in his seat at once.

"Hello, Astoria," said her mother. "Come in."

"Good afternoon, Astoria," said Narcissa pleasantly. "My husband and I have made an appeal to the Ministry that allows me, at least, to leave the house without the company of Aurors. I decided to visit you and your family with my newfound freedom." She spoke lightly, but Astoria could tell she was really pleased.

"Congratulations," said Story, smiling. "Now we can have tea even more often."

She took the seat on the sofa next to Draco but she spoke with Narcissa and Eugenia for a little longer. When Eugenia claimed Narcissa's attention, however, she turned to Draco, who had been looking at her the whole time.

"How are you?" she asked him.

He smiled. "I'm doing quite well," he answered. "Keeping busy, and all that. I got a job."

"Did you? Where are you working?"

"It's boring," he said, "I'm doing some freelance work with the Aurors."

"The Aurors?" She was surprised. "What made you decide to go in for that?"

He was quiet for a moment, and she nearly panicked, wondering if she had struck a nerve. Then he said, "Would it be terribly untoward of me to ask if we could discuss this in private?"

"Not at all," said Story. "Mother, can Mr. Malfoy and I go for a walk in the garden?"

"Absolutely," said Eugenia. Narcissa looked amused but made no objection. Story stood, beckoned to Draco, and led him out of the tea room.

They went outside and walked among the neatly hedged monstrosity that was Summervale's garden. She waited for him to speak. His hands were shoved in his pockets, rather like usual.

"When I was in school, as you probably know," he said eventually, "I made some choices that I deeply regret. Becoming a Death Eater. Assisting in the murder of Professor Dumbledore." He took a deep breath. She listened and watched his face, which was carefully neutral. "You've read all the stories, I suppose."

"I've read them," she said softly.

"Then you know what I've done. I won't go into great detail. During the Battle of Hogwarts I had some... life-changing experiences. And as a result of that, I've come to question all of the values with which I was raised. So I did as most people do, when they've done a lot of horrible things and don't want to face what they've done. I went away. I traveled."

He was quiet for a little bit, and then he said, a bitter edge in his voice, "I don't know why I'm telling you this. I haven't even told Mother this."

"I don't mind," said Story. "The Aurors?"

"Ah, yes. So I traveled, and then I got tired of it and came home. And I have been feeling..." He closed his eyes and swallowed. "...guilty. Unworthy. So I went to the Aurors, and some of them, survivors of the Battle, ragtags from Dumbledore's Army, they wanted to lambast me through the roof. But I gave their department a good bit of gold, and tracking down wizards who've done wrong..." he trailed away. "I won't do it forever, but it makes me feel as though I've not done only horrible things in my life."

They had reached a stone bench. Story gestured to it, and they sat. He looked tired again, tired and sad, the way he had looked those last two years of school. She wanted to help him.

"You haven't done only horrible things," she said finally.

He snorted. "You weren't there. I did horrible things, and I liked doing it. I felt powerful."

"Do you remember the Yule Ball?"

"I remember regretting calling Granger ugly, and I remember regretting snogging Parkinson, and I remember regretting all the butterbeer I drank the next morning."

"I remember some different things," said Story, her eyes on the ground. "I remember that you told Pansy that she looked nice, even when I was sure you had to be lying through your teeth. I remember that you were kind to me when you danced with me. And mostly I remember that when I accepted a dance with a sleazy Durmstrang boy who had clearly been at the firewhisky, you hexed him to get rid of him for me."

There was a long pause. She looked up at him. The gray eyes were burning her, boring into her soul. She looked down again, knowing that she was flushing under that stare.

"Now that you mention it," he said slowly, "I did do those things, didn't I?"

"You've done things you regret- we all have- but that doesn't mean that you are defined by those things," she said softly.

"You always seemed happy, or at least preoccupied, in school," said Draco. "Surely you have nothing you regret?"

_So many things._ "I regret not telling Nott that I was not interested in him much sooner than I did," she said quietly. "I regret the way I acted after my boyfriend died- it was a form of unhealthy mourning. I regret having cruel thoughts about other people."

"Cruel thoughts?" he said, confused.

"Nott, mostly," she said, half-smiling. "But Pansy and Scarlett were not always kind to me, and I responded rather in kind. I often think very cruel things about other people, and even if I don't say them aloud, it tends to color how I treat them."

"Can I presume then, that you've had kind thoughts about me?" he said.

"You can presume that," said Story, "if you like."

"How kind?"

"What?"

"What do you think of me?" he demanded. It was almost petulant. She had to laugh.

"I'll tell you, if you tell me what you think of me."

"It's a deal."

"I think you are not unpleasant to look at, and quite pleasant to listen to," said Story. She had no idea how she was not blushing. "You talk with your hands, and I find that interesting. You are intelligent and an excellent conversationalist, and generally I approve of you. You love your mother very much, and I find that endearing. You have always been kind to me, and perfectly respectful, when so few men have done that, assuming that my modeling career has made me, for lack of a more appropriate word, easy. I like you, and I value you as a friend."

It was not all of how she felt about him, but it clearly surprised him, because he looked gratified and pleased. "Thank you," he said. "That means a lot to me, to have your approval. Mother approves of you, and I know you approve of Mother as well, and that means that your opinion is important."

"Now what do you think of me?" said Story, smiling. Now the blush came, of course, and she couldn't meet the gray eyes because if she did she wasn't sure that she couldn't keep the truth off her face.

He was quiet for a long moment, studying her, and then he said softly, "You're beautiful, of course. That's the thing most people see about you. But you're not beautiful the way Scarlett and Daphne are beautiful- not flashy, not loud, but delicate and dark and shadowy. You're intelligent, smarter than I ever was, and you love to learn new things. You're always kind and polite and respectful, and learning what I have about your thoughts I can hardly believe that you would ever truly intend to be cruel with them, because of the kind ways in which you speak of others." He took a breath. "And as gentle and sweet as you are, Astoria, there is something very strong about you, which I don't know the depths of. You are unbreakable. And I admire that. I, too, value you as a friend."

She felt as though her whole face were on fire, and then she knew that the moment had come, the one that she had been waiting on since she was four or five years old.

"Story," she said.

"What?"

"Story. I call myself Story, in my mind. Most people call me Astoria. Daphne calls me Torrie. Blaise calls me Toria, which is also my modeling name. But my real name is Story. You can call me Story, if you like."

She felt as though she were four again, her face still burning, her hands twisting in her lap. A long, slender hand came down and held her hands still. She knew she had tiny hands, but one of his hands covered both of hers.

"That's a good name for you," he said seriously. "You are quite the fairy tale, Story Greengrass."

"Just don't call me that in front of others," said Story. "I'm extremely selective about who I tell. You happen to be the first."

She looked up at him and blinked, because his face was closer than she thought it was and for one dizzying, terrifying moment, she thought he was going to kiss her. And she would not have stopped him- not when she'd been waiting for it for eight years.

But then she heard her mother's voice calling, "Astoria!" and she stood up, pulling her hands away, as though burned.

"We probably have to go back," she said, and she was aware of how breathless she sounded.

He looked... calm. It made her despair even more.

"Yes, we have been out here for a while. You have a lovely garden, Story."

And the way he said her name- she wanted him to say it over and over again. Heat seared across her face again, and she took the lead, walking from the garden with him following her.

"We're here, Mother," she called tiredly.

"Oh, good. Mrs. Malfoy is ready to leave," said Eugenia.

"It was lovely meeting you, Mrs. Greengrass," said Draco politely.

Narcissa stood in the hall, waiting. Her sharp blue eyes looked at Story, who knew she must look like some sort of lovestruck schoolgirl, and at Draco, whose face as usual seemed to reveal nothing as pleasantly as possible. _And Narcissa knows how much I like him, too._ The thought made her face burn for what seemed like the thousandth time.

"Thank you for calling, Narcissa," said Eugenia. "I've missed you quite a lot. It's been lovely, getting reacquainted. Thank you."

"I've missed you, too, Eugenia. It's been lovely. You have such a beautiful home, and Astoria has become a dear friend."

Story smiled. "Thank you," was all she could say.

Narcissa took Draco's arm, and they walked to the doors. Story hesitated for a moment, then went with them.

"I'm glad you visited," she said, to both of them. "It was lovely."

"Bring your mother by next time, if you can," said Narcissa. "I'd love to catch up with her more. Did Draco behave himself?"

"Admirably," said Story, and she felt a little thrill of pleasure when for once Draco's face pinked a little bit, the color rushing back to his neck as well as remaining on his face. "We had a lovely time."

"We'll see you soon, Astoria."

Story nodded and smiled, and before she could stop herself, she darted over to the closest flower bush, seized the best of the blooms, waved her wand, and pinned it to Draco's buttonhole. It was an iris.

"A thank you, for the roses," she said, feeling mischief more than her embarrassingly obvious infatuation. "Have a good day."

Narcissa smiled. Draco's smile was crooked and left her a little breathless. They vanished.

Story went back inside and sat down on the stairs. She really needed to sit down.  
"Is he courting you?" said Eugenia, appearing immediately before her.

"I have no idea," said Story, and it was, for once, the truth.

The next party was being hosted by the Montagues, and Story didn't really want to go, seeing how she was unsure of where she stood with Draco. She decided she would go anyway, though, because if she suddenly stopped going to parties people would talk, and she had been gossiped about often enough in her life. She cared enough to select one of her favorite gowns, a hunter's-green one that hugged her curves and flowed out into a glimmering skirt. The sleeves curled over her shoulder sockets, leaving a wide scoop for her neck and freedom for her arms. She stepped into shoes and did her hair. Something was missing to her look though- not the pearls. They weren't quite as formal as her dress. Her eyes fell on the white rosebuds in the vase, and she inserted them carefully into her hair.

They Apparated to Montague Place ("What an original name," Story commented to Eugenia, who threw her a dirty look) and walked in. The Montagues greeted them, and Story tried not to show her distaste when Graham, Daphne's Yule Ball date of days long gone, stared at her in evident admiration. So did most of the boys there. She ignored most of them and went to take a seat on a couch.

The room was quite crowded and the dancing had already begun when whispers began shooting around the room like spells, and people began looking towards the doors and craning their necks. Story looked, too.

Draco Malfoy, dramatic as ever in all black, walked into the party with his mother on his arm. Narcissa wasn't beaming, exactly, but she was smiling rather widely, in clear enjoyment of the sensation she and her son were clearly causing. Story was reminded of a Jane Austen novel involving five characters arriving at a crowded ballroom and being the night's gossip.

And then she saw Pansy, who was wearing some atrocious thing in gaudy French blue, and who was moving towards the Malfoys with a wide, predatory smile on her face. Story sighed to herself as the conversations struck up again, and as Pansy took Narcissa's place when the older woman stepped away to join the adults upstairs. She could not stand to watch this. She had known it would happen at some point, but she was still angry- and hurt- and annoyed.

She made her way into a small study off the main ballroom for fresh air. No sooner than she had begun to relax than the door opened, and Blaise came in.

"Saw you duck in here, sweetie," he said companionably. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," said Story. "Really, I am. I just-" She sighed. "I'm having a bad night of it."

"Well, you look fantastic, so you should just get out there and blow all of those losers out of the water."

He sounded a little forlorn, and Story said, feeling as though it was her duty, "How are you holding up?"

"Oh, I'm all right," said Blaise. "I miss Neil, even though he's a dirty cheating bastard. But I did go to a bar the other night, and I met a totally gorgeous guy."

"Tell me about him," said Story. _Anything to forget Draco with Pansy hanging on him like a tumor._

"His name is James," said Blaine, his face perking up, "and he's Irish, like your Eogan. I've always liked the Irish thing. And he's got the most _fantastic_ eyes."

It wasn't helping much. Her mind went to ghostly gray eyes, piercing her soul. She cleared her throat. "Sounds dreamy."

"Oh, he is," agreed Blaine. Then his face crumpled, and he burst into tears.

Story sighed. "Blaise, if Neil was cheating on you, he doesn't deserve you. Not the wonderful person you are." She pushed herself from where she had been sitting on the desk, and hugged Blaise. He cried into her shoulder.

That was the moment, of course, that the door opened again, to none other than Draco Malfoy. His face was excited, but it vanished the moment he saw Story, holding Blaise.

"Sorry," he said, his face blank, and he closed the door.

"Oh, God," groaned Story.

"What?" said Blaise.

Story sighed. "Nothing," she said. "I just made myself into an idiot, that's all."

"By hugging me?"

"No, because Draco Malfoy saw me hugging you, and I may possibly be in love with him." It was time she told Blaise, anyway.

"I'm sorry," said Blaise, accepting the news with surprising aplomb. "Is he mad?"

"He looked a little bit mad," said Story.

"Then you better go get him," said Blaise, wiping his eyes.

Story kissed Blaise's forehead. "I'll come back and talk to you in a minute. Thanks!"

She opened the door, her eyes searching the crowd for Draco. She spotted him talking to Montague and Bletchley, looking uncomfortable.

She glided through the crowd towards him. He spotted her coming and raised his eyebrows, in a way that was almost as arrogant and cruel as he had even been at his worst during Hogwarts. Montague and Bletchley glanced at her, then moved a little bit away from Draco.

"Mr. Malfoy," she said courteously, "are you having a good evening?"

"Not particularly," he said. His face was still full of pride. Wounded pride, she was sure.

"Me, either," she said.

"It, er, looked like you were having a good time," he said stiffly.

"Not really," she said. "Blaise is pretty cut up over his boyfriend breaking up with him. As usual, I have to pick up the pieces."

He stiffened. "Er- his boyfriend?"

"Yes, you silly twit. Blaise is gay."

He turned to stare at her, and she couldn't help but smile at the expression on his face, which was half incredulity and half some other thing, but combined they served to make him seem adorably goofy.

"Gay?" he said. "Then what was he draped all over you for?"

"Sometimes you hug your friends when they aren't having a very good time of it," said Story.

"You said you weren't having a very good time of it, and neither am I. Should I hug you?"

Story smiled and held out her arms.

He hugged her, and as warm as he was and as perfect as it felt to have one of his hands on the small of her back and the other between her shoulder blades, the best thing about it was undoubtedly the way he _smelled_- like mint toothpaste and soap and something warm and a little bit spicy.

He started it, so she had to end it. She pulled away a little bit, regretfully, and he released her at once, as though afraid of offending her.

"My evening is much better now," he said solemnly, but with laughter in the gray eyes.

"Mine, too," said Story. "I had better go comfort Blaise, though. I promised I would go back."

"I haven't seen Blaise in a while, can I tag along?"

"Of course," said Story, and she walked back through the crowd to the little study.

Blaise sat inside, still sniffling, and when she came in he looked up and said, "Did you get him?"

"I brought him back with me," said Story, laughing.

Draco offered his hand to Blaise. "Good to see you, Zabini," he said courteously.

"Good to see you, too. What's it been, four years?"

"Something like that," said Draco.

Story and Blaise talked quietly for a few minutes, using arguments she knew he had made with her before about Neil, when he had been scared of the idea of dating Neil.

"How about this," said Story firmly. "You go home and Floo James. He gave you his fireplace number, right?"

Blaise sniffled and nodded.

"Well, you go home and call him and tell him you want to listen to the radio and wondered if he'd like to listen with you. There's supposed to be a Celestina Warbeck program on tonight. Didn't you say he likes Celestina Warbeck? And so do you. And pick up some ice cream, too."

"Are you sure you don't want to come, too?"

"I'd rather stay here," said Story, "because I am having a pretty good time, with the exception of being unhappy for you. I'm suggesting you go do something that makes you happy, so that I will also be happy."

Blaise grinned. "Selfish, aren't you?" he said, standing up.

"Quite," said Story. "Now go give your apologies to Mrs. Montague, and go home and Floo James. He'll be delighted to join you."

Blaise nodded. "You always know how to make everything better," he said. "Thanks, Toria." He left the little study.

Story sighed and collapsed onto one of the chairs. "I really have to plan most of his romantic life for him," she said with another sigh.

"You seem quite good at it," said Draco.

"Oh, I'm excellent at arranging things. Just not my own life." Story shook her head. "I help Blaise with his boy problems, and he helps me with my wardrobe. Or he did when I lived in the flat above his, for my job."

"It sounds like you're very good friends."

"He was very supportive after Eogan died," said Story.

"Tell me about Eogan."

She looked at Draco.

He looked back at her.

"I will tell you about him," she said, "but not tonight."

"Why not?"

She smiled. "Because we're at a party, and we should be dancing and having fun and drinking champagne, not discussing things that are depressing and that will make me cry."

"Will you tell me about him tomorrow?"

"Where and when?"

"I'll come over tomorrow morning," said Draco. "It's a Saturday tomorrow."

"So, no champagne for either of us?"

"One glass," he conceded, "but any more and we'll be too hung over to get up."

Story laughed.

He offered one hand to her. "Would you care to dance, Miss Greengrass?"

"I would love to," she answered, taking his hand.

They emerged from the study and he led her right onto the dance floor. Story glanced around and saw gaudy French blue and an outraged stare before Draco whirled her around the room. He was a marvelous dancer, as good as Blaise and in some ways better, because Blaise's hand on her waist had never made her feel as though she could fall over and be caught. Blaise's hand clasped in hers as they waltzed had never made her knees want to buckle. And Blaise had spent every dance looking around and criticizing people, whereas Draco spent the dance talking and laughing with her, his face lighting up when he laughed, the grey eyes betraying no emotion but happiness. And Story felt as though all of her dreams had come true, as though she were the center of the world, of his world. The ten years she had waited had been worth it, so very very worth it, if they had all existed to lead up to this.

When the song was over he offered his arm and she took it, and he led her back to the little study. "I'll get us some water," he offered. "Do you want anything else, Story?"

She shook her head- there was the thrill again. She sat on the desk, her legs swinging back and forth. He left.

The door burst open again, but this time it was Pansy Parkinson, and she said sweetly, "Hello, Astoria, lovely party, isn't it?"

"Not bad at all," said Story lightly. None of Pansy's barbs could sting her, because she had a memory of Draco Malfoy telling her that he regretted snogging Pansy Parkinson, and therefore she had a shield.

"You look lovely," said Pansy. "Did you dress up for anyone special?"

"No, not really."

"You know, Draco and I are old friends," purred the older girl. "I've gotten to know him pretty well, and he's not exactly... _constant_..."

Story wanted to let out a sigh, but she didn't. Instead, she said the words that she knew would hurt the other girl. "Perhaps not to you."

Pansy's mouth dropped open. Story gazed at her calmly, waiting for the response.

"You horrid little bitch," said Pansy. "He's my boyfriend."

"Is he?" said Story, her temper flaring. "He's my friend, and he told me no such thing. I believe that both people in a relationship have to be consenting before allowing the other to brag about it. I'm perfectly willing to admit that he was your boyfriend while we were at Hogwarts. I just don't believe you know, given how he's been in Europe since December of ninety-eight and you've been here writing all sorts of nasty things about people who usually don't deserve it, _whether_ he still considers you his girlfriend. And I don't think he does, because he's been home for something like five or six weeks and he's only mentioned you once or twice."

The door opened, and there stood Draco with two glasses of water. "The line was long," he said, looking at Story.

"Five or six _weeks_?" shrieked Pansy. There was a sudden quiet outside in the ballroom.

Story sighed. "You need to sort out your relationship with her," she said to Draco, taking one of the glasses. "When you're finished, if you're finished, I will be waiting in the library." She walked out of the room and around the still-whirling couples, past the people staring at her and Draco's back in the study doorway, past the stairs that led up to where the parents sat, and where her mother and Narcissa were both watching her with approving looks on their faces, and past the table with the water and the champagne and to the large double doors that held the Montague library.

The doors implied that the library was much bigger than it actually was. There was a copy of _Romeo and Juliet _on a wooden stand in the center of the room. The Montagues claimed that they were descended from the family about whom William Shakespeare had written- because Shakespeare had been a wizard, and quite a good one at that. There was a family of Capulets in Italy. Evidently the Montagues of the late fifteen hundreds had moved to England to meet the man who had immortalized their family in verse. Story flipped through the book. _Romeo and Juliet_ was a silly story. She had read Shakespeare when she was young. She had preferred Jane Austen. But then, Jane Austen had some silly stories, too. Lucy Steele and her stupid prior claim to Edward Ferrars, tormenting Elinor Dashwood day in and day out. Emma Woodhouse, when she thought that Mr. Knightley was in love with Harriet. Fanny Price, watching as Edmund languished over Mary Crawford.

She wanted to break something. She didn't get angry very often. Right now she was boiling with it. She didn't know if she was jealous or angry or just tired of pretending, tired of trying to hide the fact that she was hopelessly in love with Draco Malfoy.

Minutes passed that felt like hours. She made her way through the shelves and found a large bay window seat, open to the moonlight. She curled up on it and stared down at the lake next to Montague Place. It was placid, still, calm, reflecting the moon like twin Sickles.

A gentle hand touched her shoulder. She jumped. It was Draco.

He sat down at the other end of the window seat, silently, and just looked at her for a moment.

When he opened his mouth to speak, Story said, "I met Eogan Southers during the battle of Hogwarts."

He was silent, and she took this as encouragement to go on. "He was very kind to me. I didn't want to fight, as you've no doubt read in the papers. I started the infirmary, and Eogan and a few others helped me to do it. He helped carry the dead up to the second floor of The Three Broomsticks and kept Patronuses around the place when the dementors came to feast on the emotion there.

"After the battle, he and most of the students in my year decided to take their O.W.L.s over again. I did not, because I had very good O.W.L.s and I saw no reason to repeat the year. I continued with my sixth year and then my seventh. I began dating Eogan in the fall of my seventh year. We had that whole year, and after that he was in his seventh year and Blaise had gotten me a job as a model for Gladrags Wizardwear. I liked the job and Blaise was kind to me. He helped me find an apartment.

"After Eogan's seventh year he got a flat near Diagon Alley. He had that for a few months. He kept getting migraines and headaches. One day he went to St. Mungo's and came back and told me he had a cancer on his brain. Usually magic can fix cancers, but this one wasn't able to be fixed because if they shrank it or removed it, he would drown in his own brain fluid. The cancer was located on a sensitive place, near a major artery, so any excitement or high heart rate could also burst the tumor. He told me he would be dead by June.

"He moved in with me, because I wanted to help him. He went blind in April. In May-" She swallowed and closed her eyes.

"...in May I came home and I found him murdered brutally. I called Blaise and he called the Aurors. They don't know who did it. The killer covered his tracks very well, almost too well."

She took deep, shuddering breaths, then went on. "After the funeral, I... sort of lost it. I stopped going to work. I stopped eating. I stopped sleeping. I bought a Pensieve and relived some of the memories we had, over and over again. I lost over fifty pounds. I was a walking skeleton. Blaise made sure I wasn't dead.

"And you have to understand- I loved Eogan, as a brother and a friend and as someone very dear to my heart. And he loved me with his whole heart. I was holding back a little, because there was something that was not perfect about it. And that made it so much worse, when he died. I didn't love him enough, and he deserved someone better than me, someone who loved him back. And I went a little crazy.

"But one morning I woke up, and there was this-" She fingered the white streak. "-and I stared at it for a while, because I didn't remember when or how it had gotten there. That was when I realized that I needed help. So Blaise helped me, and Daphne helped me, and I got better, very slowly. I'm still not quite all right. Sometimes I still have nightmares. I haven't had any nightmares since I began visiting your mother, and since I met you.

"And that was odd, because when we were at Hogwarts, Pansy was right in thinking that I had a crush on you, because I did have a very little crush on you, one that mostly stemmed from you hexing Poliakoff at the Yule Ball, and after that I tried to hide it because you were Pansy's, and I had no right to even think about you, so I didn't. And even though Nott was after me for seven straight years and even though he tried to express his interest in me after he left Azkaban, I turned him down flat every time because he creeped me out but also because I was always thinking of you, a little bit. And all those little bits of thinking of you added up to a whole lot, and I'm going to regret telling you this later, but I was in love with you for ten years, Draco Malfoy, and I am not ashamed of it at the moment, just feeling inadequate because I have no right when I should still be in mourning for Eogan, and because I'm not sure if you reciprocate."

She stopped talking, and for a long moment he said nothing. They were just two silent people, in the moonlit window, and she was crying a little bit but not allowing it to affect her voice, even though her throat hurt from all that talking.

"Story Greengrass," he said eventually, "I have not been in love with you for ten years, because I was an oblivious git and never noticed, but on the night I arrived back home and looked into the hall and saw my mother standing there with her wand pointing at me as though I were a threat and seeing this beautiful angel behind her, I fell rather madly in love with that angel."

Story's heart stopped.

"So I told Pansy that we had been done since Easter of my seventh year. That was what I told her. I may not have loved you as long, Story-" And here he leaned forward and took her hands, and her heart started again but it seemed to be beating rather unevenly. "-but in the short time I have loved you, I'll wager I've loved you just as much." And then he very gently kissed her on the lips.

It was like someone had lit a match under her lips, because all he was touching were her hands and her lips, but strange warm shivers ran down her spine. She wanted more-she wanted him- she loved him- and best of all, he loved her.

He let go of her hands and pulled her close, wrapping his hands around her waist like they belonged there. To Story, they did.


	18. Chapter 17: Warning

Chapter Seventeen: Warning

She could not remember when she had been so happy. It was like living in some kind of dream.

She went to Malfoy Manor every other day; on the off days Draco and sometimes Narcissa came to Summervale. They would sit in the Summervale library and talk for hours, or they would walk through the garden and say nothing at all, just holding hands. Story knew that her parents liked Draco- and he was hard not to like, when he chose to be charming. He was a perfect gentleman.

One day he came over and asked if he could see her room.

"Why?" she asked, but she was already leading him to the stairs. She wore jeans and a t-shirt. He didn't care if she dressed up, and sometimes he came over in much the same, but always with a set of everyday black robes overtop. It made him look dramatic and mysterious, no matter what he wore.

"Because I want to see where you spent your childhood," he answered.

"I've changed it since I came home."

She showed him the original colors, then changed them back to the colors she had. In the bedroom, he wandered around, touching the wall, feeling the satin curtains. He was a tactile person, always needing to touch everything, to fidget with his wand, to have something to play with. He stopped at the dresser, and gazed for a long moment at the roses that he had sent her, the ones she had kept and was still keeping because thanks to Saidy, she could keep them alive indefinitely if she wanted to.

"You kept them," he said, and there was something ragged in his voice, something touched.

"Of course I did," she said."

"At the time they didn't mean much other than gratitude," he said softly, "I mean, I thought of you and I thought you were beautiful. But I wasn't giving them as tokens. You kept them, anyway."

"They were from you," she answered.

He went to her in two steps and kissed her. It was tender and sweet and she could barely breathe.

"You're a sentimentalist," he murmured between kisses. His hands had wandered up to her face, and they were cold, but his lips were warm.

"Well, you seem to like it, so I'll continue," she answered.

And then she felt the wall behind her, and he pressed her against it and whispered in her ear, "You had better," and it was a combination of threatening and tender, something that made her knees just stop working altogether, and the only thing holding her up was him and his hands.

"Trust me, I won't," she breathed, bringing her arms up around his neck. She started playing with his hair, running her fingers through it, and was immensely delighted by his reaction, which was to inhale sharply and roll his eyes in pleasure.

"Merlin, you're like a cat," she said, and then she burst out laughing and he looked bewildered until they sat down on the floor and she ran her fingers through his hair again.

"That feels really good, and you should keep doing it," was his response.

"Okay, but I may start French-braiding your hair."

"Braid away," he said, closing his eyes. "Tell me something that happened in this room when you were a child."

She moved onto the bed, and he sat in front of it on the floor. She began braiding his hair.

"When I was very little, I went down to the library-"

"I said in here," he protested.

She pulled his hair lightly. "I come back here, silly. Now be quiet or I won't tell you the story."

She waited until he subsided to begin talking again. "As I was saying, I went down to the library when I was about five. Sometimes I read books in my room, but I had finished all the ones in my room, so I went to find a new one. I found one that looked interesting, but it was extremely heavy-"

"Of course it was," he murmured.

She pulled his hair again. "Hush. It was extremely heavy, and I could barely lift it. But I was a fairly intelligent child, so I figured something out. I remembered that Mum and Dad used wands to lift heavy things, so I went to find one of them. My mum was having tea. I nicked her wand and went back to the library and poked it at the book, and it floated up into the air and went all the way up the stairs for me and into my room. I set it down on my bed but I didn't feel like reading the book anymore, because I had the wand. I kept waving it around, and I thought it was the funniest thing in the world when a flock of birds would appear, or water would spill on the ground, or flowers or sparks would come out of the tip. And then I figured out how to make bubbles, and I made a lot of bubbles. They filled the whole room and started going down the stairs. And then they went into the tea room where mum was, and she ran upstairs through the bubbles and found me."

Draco was shaking with laughter under her hands. She pulled the braid out and mussed his hair all over his head. He yelped and rolled away on the floor, and Story collapsed on the bed laughing at the sight of her boyfriend rolling on her bedroom floor, especially someone as dignified as Draco.

The day after that he was waiting for her when she Apparated just outside Malfoy Manor. He had been leaning on the gate, and now he strode forwards, kissed her thoroughly in greeting, and said, "I have a surprise for you."

Curious, she had followed him through a little opening in the hedge. She spotted the fountain that always gurgled merrily whenever she went up the stairs to the Manor. They wandered through the forest that was technically still part of the Manor, and he led her downhill into a valley where moss and mushrooms covered the forest floor. The trees grew very thick, and the path opened onto a summer-bright meadow that was full of flowers.

She gasped as she walked into it, letting go of his hand. It was a sea of color, white and yellow and pink and orange. She could only stare for a few minutes. Bees buzzed lazily about. The flowers grew as high as her waist, and they were a sea of color.

"I found it on my sixteenth birthday," he said quietly, a few feet behind her. "It was the last happy day I had, before the Dark Lord came to me and marked my arm. It is beautiful, isn't it?"

She couldn't even say anything.

"Nobody else knows about it." He was closer now, and his hands slid onto her waist from behind. "It's our beautiful secret."

And the gesture of that, more than anything he had ever said before, made her exhale and lean back into him, and she took one of his hands and pulled him into the meadow, until they stood in the very middle of it, and then she placed one of his hands on her waist and clasped the other one, and they waltzed in the meadow of flowers, and he was laughing but there was something so soft, so sweet in his face, and she couldn't stop looking at him because he was beautiful. And for some unfathomable reason he looked at her the same way. Even when they kissed, he handled her like porcelain, like spun sugar, like thin crystal. As though she were fragile and would break under his touch. She had no such qualms.

They began going on dates. Soon they were plastered onto the tabloids, but Story didn't care what Parkinson and Skeeter had, because she had Draco and he was everything, he was life, he was air. But he was more than that, because she could live without him- she had done it before- he was something extra, something special, something that she knew she didn't deserve, not even for an instant, because he was Draco and she was Story and she had lived in the world long enough that happiness always came with a price.

One night she went out with him to the Leaky Cauldron, and people had stared at them, but Hannah Longbottom kept the photographers from taking their pictures and stopped people from trying to talk to them. Story made sure to tip her generously, and so did Draco. He took her home, kissed her good-night, then went home himself. She had gone to bed, content and feeling sweet.

Around two in the morning she woke up, sweating and frightened, choking on her own screams. She stumbled into her bathroom and threw up everything in her stomach, retching, full of fear, angry, remembering.

Because she had been with someone before, and they had been hurt because of it. Nott was married now, but that meant nothing, to him. She had known. She had seen it at the wedding. She knew that he had only married Daphne as a maneuver in the game he seemed to think they were playing. Story had not responded. She wasn't playing the game. And sooner or later Nott would grow impatient, as he had done with Eogan, and he would come for Draco. Their relationship wasn't exactly private.

She breathed unsteadily, then went back into her room and sat on the bed for a moment. She had lit a scented candle from a little shop in Diagon Alley, something Blaise had bought her a few years ago. She breathed in the smell, cinnamon, nutmeg, sugar. A fall smell.

Something clicked on her window.

She blew out the candle at once, plunging her room into darkness. Her hand was clenched around her wand. She moved to the window, but without letting her shadow be seen against the window.

A figure stood down in the garden below her window. They threw a pebble. Another one clacked against the glass.

Very cautiously, she opened the window.

"Story, come outside," said the voice.

Story closed her eyes and smiled for a moment, then called down, "It's two in the morning, Draco."

"I know. Come outside."

She laughed and closed her window, then pulled a cloak from her closet and went downstairs as silently as she could. He was waiting for her by the back door.

"Look," he said, grabbing her hand and pointing at the cloudless black sky. "I was doing some Astronomy the other night, and I predicted some things. I wanted to see if they would come true."

They stood there for a moment, just holding hands, staring at the sky, and then a streak of light flashed across it, and Story gasped as several others followed.

"Shooting stars," said Draco. "I thought you'd like it."

"Thank you," said Story. Her voice came out a little scratchy, and she silently winced as he suddenly spun her around and stared at her face, then looked her up and down.

"What's wrong?" he said. "You don't sound happy."

"Nothing's wrong." She tried to smile.

"Something is definitely wrong," said Draco. He leaned down to kiss her, but she turned away.

"I threw up," she explained, to his disappointed face. "I don't smell fantastic."

He waved his wand, and the arid, sour feeling in her mouth vanished. "How about now?"

She had to laugh. He leaned down to kiss her again, and it started out as a simple one but somehow ended up with one of his hands tangled in her hair and the other pressed tightly against the small of her back.

"Now, what's wrong?" he murmured.

Story sighed.

"I can't tell you."

"Why not?"

"Because you would try to rescue me," she answered, "and this is something I can't let you help me with."

He was still and silent, and then he said, "Does this have to do with the person who killed your boyfriend?"

He was smart. She ought not to have even given him the slightest clue.

"Yes," she said.

"Do you know who did it?"

"Yes."

"Who?"

"I will not tell you."

He sighed in frustration.

"Are you afraid of him hurting you?"

"No," said Story. "I'm afraid of him hurting _you_."

She curled into him, laying her head on his chest. She could hear his heartbeat, close under the thin beater he wore under his cloak.

"I can take care of myself, and you," he murmured.

She shook her head. "I had a personalized spell on my apartment. The only people who could Apparate in and out directly were Blaise, Eogan and I. I had Intruder Charms on my flat, Blaise's flat, and the whole building. The murderer walked right through without disturbing any of them. It's as though he knew everything I had done for security and how to bypass it."

"You and I are safe at our homes," he said. "The manor has years and years worth of protective spells on it, plus the extra enchantments added by the Ministry recently. And I'd be willing to bet that Summervale has a lot of good protection as well."

"He's going to find us," said Story. "And when he does he's going to hurt us."

"How do you know?"

"I know him very well."

He was quiet again. "You do realize that this is not at all comforting, and that also I can probably guess his identity from the clues you've so far given me?"

Story closed her eyes. His hands were gentle on her shoulders and back, rubbing small circles, his touch light and warm. She wanted to fall asleep in his arms.

"It's Nott," he said after a moment.

She froze.

"Definitely Nott," he added. "I thought of your father, at first, but he's not the killing type. None of you Greengrasses are the killing type, thank God. Blaise was a possibility, especially when you said that he was one of the only people who could apparate into your apartment, but from the way you spoke of the killer, it was someone interested in you, not in your boyfriend. Blaise's ex is also gay. Then there's me, but I have a solid alibi of being in Europe, and that leaves Nott, whom I know you were friends with during school, even if you didn't reciprocate his affections."

She pulled from his grip and began walking towards the house.

"Story, wait!"

"I'm not your servant," she snapped. Something had gone rigid inside of her, something that threatened to break her with its breaking. His cool analysis of the secret she had tried so hard to keep, the thing she had tried to tell him without telling him, was like a punch to the gut. Was the secret that tenuous? If it was, how much danger was Daphne in?

How much danger was Draco in?

"Please," he said, and his voice was broken.

She stopped walking. She could not refuse him, not now, not when she would have to pull away before he was hurt.

"I know you're scared," he said gently. "So am I."

"You don't understand," said Story numbly. "He tore Eogan's eyes out of their sockets and ground them into the bed. He stabbed him, over and over. He wrote on the wall of the flat with his blood. _She is mine, she has always been mine, too bright for you to see, you were blinded by her beauty._ That's what he wrote. It's burned into my eyes."

"Story-"

"In my third year, after the Yule Ball when Pansy and Nott both thought I liked you and they were sort of right, he asked me out and he said something that sort of stayed with me. 'Cool head, cool heart, they call you the Ice Queen for a reason, but wind you up and you're angry enough to burn any man alive.' He was already thinking of me in... unchaste ways."

"I knew that," said Draco. He sounded uncomfortable. "He had that picture of you on his bedside table, remember?"

"Thank you for the reminder."

"I know he's persistent," said Draco, reaching forwards and catching her hand. "But hear me out, Story- hear my reasons for wanting to stay with you despite him. If these reasons weren't really strong, trust me, I would be running." He tried to smile, but Story didn't laugh.

"Explain away," she said.

He pulled her hand a little, and she followed him. He chose the wicker swing that hung in the gazebo, sitting upright instead of lounging like he usually did.

"After the... battle," he said softly, "I was sort of lost."

_You looked it, _remembered Story. He had been looking lost since the middle of his sixth year at Hogwarts.

"So I decided to go to Europe. And I traveled for a while. I spent time among Muggles and wizards alike, because there are more Muggle pubs than Wizarding ones, so one has to be discreet. I learned a lot of things, some different magic that you wouldn't learn in England. We use all of this standardized Latin-based magic, brought up through Rome and then Germany and France and then with the Normandy invasion of England we spoke French for two hundred years, and all of the Romance-based languages. English is a combination of Slavic and Romantic tongues. I learned some of the old magic- not black magic, though a lot of it is. I just went to Israel for a few months and learned some Hebrew spells, passed down through the Essene scholars. I met a band of gypsies in the Czech Republic and learned some of the Roma charms. Greece was for Greek spells, and I even took a trip down to Egypt for a month and learned a few Arabic and Egyptian spells. Someday I plan to go to Asia and study with Hindustani spells, Chinese spells, and maybe even some from Sanskrit, if I can find the right people."

"Does all of this have a point?" said Story tersely, though despite herself she was curious about the spells he meant, based on languages besides Latin. The possibilities of whole different kinds of magic based on language intrigued her.

"Yes, it does. Learning the new languages and the new spells, even though mine didn't have the strength of ancestry behind it, it made me feel a little less lost. Only a little bit. I felt like I had something of a compass."

She understood that feeling. Her compass, as much as she had tried to hide it, had always been Draco Malfoy.

"But something was missing, and I was beginning to get tired of it. The traveling. I had been running for a long time, and I decided that I was going to go home at some point, to see what had been the result of the mistakes I had made. And I went home one night when I got kicked out of the last pub in Berlin that still allowed me in the door, and then-"

"Why did you get kicked out of pubs?"

"I like initiating fights," he said, glancing over with the crooked smile. "I don't participate in them often, but I like to stir other people's cauldrons for them and see if they yelp."

She shook her head, though she couldn't help but smile back.

"But anyway, I got kicked out so I decided to come home. And it was raining, and I seriously almost thought about going back to Berlin because it wasn't raining. But I didn't, because I walked in the front door of my house and you were there, and then I realized that the compass had been pointing me towards home, towards... you."

His voice was tender, a little breathless, and Story felt that rigidity in her collapse, ready to stand stiff but also ready to bend.

"And I don't mean that as just some romantic tiff. Magic and love are intertwined, Story. I'm sure everyone knows by know about how the Dark Lord couldn't touch Potter for a long time, because his mother sacrificed herself for love and all of that. I wasn't a strong believer in it at first. But I've thought about it, and I think that... maybe... the pull of how much you loved me was what brought me home.

"I never took Muggle Studies at school because I thought it was stupid but I learned about compasses in Israel, because one of the Essene scholars I was studying with thought I was submental for not having a basic knowledge of Muggle science. But I learned about compasses and I remembered it the other day when I was thinking about you. The compass was pointing towards you, because you were the strongest magnet. That's sort of what I meant before when I said there's something unbreakable about you. You can break a magnet, but it's just going to stick back together again.

"You're my magnet, Story. And that's not going to change, because your pull is so strong. I feel it, and others have felt it. Your boyfriend, and Blaise as a friend, and even people who don't like you have this pull towards you. There's no neutrality with you, Story. Either people love you or they hate you. And I really, really love you. I want to travel the world one day and learn more languages. I meant that. But I want to do it with _you_."

He stopped speaking as his voice broke on the last word.

She gazed at him. _Cool heart, cool head._ But she was not cool-headed, and she was not cool-hearted. She stared at him, and he stared at her, and she thought about magnets because she had taken Muggle Studies, and she was reminded suddenly that north poles and south poles were attracted to each other. She was a north pole, the Ice Queen, dark and pale, and he was the south pole, fair and pale.

And she knew it was no good to argue for his safety, because he meant every word he said, and she had felt it in her bones that he loved her. And for once she didn't feel like she loved him more. She loved him infinitely, but for him to swallow the ever-present Malfoy pride to tell her that, that was love. That was more than she ever could have asked of him.

"What about Ireland?" she asked him.

He blinked. "What?"

"Ireland. They speak Gaelic there. I'm fairly sure Gaelic is a Nordic variant, and I don't think you went to any part of Scandinavia. I bet there are some fantastic Nordic spells we could learn-"

She couldn't finish the sentence because his eyes had gone joyously wild and he had seized her and crushed her lips with his, his arm wrapped tightly around her waist and his free hand on the back of her neck. She was dizzy suddenly, and tendrils of warmth were radiating from her body. Cool heart indeed. She was no such thing with Draco Malfoy.

"Is that a yes, that you want to travel with me?" he said, pressing kisses along her jawline and down to the tender spot behind her ear.

"Um-" she stuttered, because she really couldn't think when he did that, and because the tiniest bit of scruff on his face was making a pleasant sort of friction on her cheek. "-maybe?"

"What do I have to do to get you to make that a yes?" he said, and his voice was this velvety whisper, the warm breath of the yes curling around her ear. She shivered with delight.

"Well-" she said.

"Never mind," he said suddenly, "I've got a plan. I won't coerce you further at the moment, however, because it's rather cold out here."

"Come inside," she suggested.

"Your mother would be scandalized," he said pleasantly, "and anyway I'm attempting to be a gentleman. I know that you probably don't believe I'm a virgin, given Parkinson's state of draped over me like a blanket at any given point between the Yule Ball and Easter of my seventh year, but I can assure you that I am, and while I greatly enjoy kissing you-" He kissed her in that spot behind the ear again, and she might have been seeing stars- "and holding you-" His arms pulled her in closer. "-and just being with you, all the time, it is not the opportune moment for me to lose my virginity. Would it be rude of me to inquire as to the nature of yours? I know it's really none of my business but I like you a lot and-"

"I am a virgin," said Story, "and call me old-fashioned, but I plan on staying that way until I get married."

She didn't feel ashamed about talking to him about it. And she was pleased, that he had sort of the same idea about it as she had. It was another of the many tendrils of connection that laced them together. And now that she thought about it, he was different from all the other people in her life. If he left, that thing in her that was waiting to become rigid would shatter. He said she was unbreakable. It was true, when she was around most people. None of them could break her. She had only given him the power to do that.

And of course, Nott had the power as well- if he were to do the same thing as he had done with Eogan, she would be broken irreparably. She had tasted that brokenness when Eogan had died. If she had loved Eogan more and Draco less, she would be in the permanent ward at St. Mungo's.

He pulled her closer. "I have such plans," he murmured, "such plans for the both of us, compass and magnet." His lips grazed her ear, and then he pressed kisses into her hair until she felt warm and happy and a little bit sleepy, as the witching hour passed and the sky began to lighten to grey in the horizon.

He left, eventually, and she went back upstairs, safe and with a feeling of warmth that stayed in her chest.

But then she opened her bedroom door and stopped, and she could not move because there was something that held her, something that pinned her- though thankfully not the way the knife had been pinned to her pillows, the curtains torn and slashed, the vase of roses spilling over, words carved onto the walls by the knife.

_Good guess darling, he doesn't deserve you, you are mine, I'll get you in the end._


	19. Chapter 18: Malfoy Manor

Chapter Eighteen: Malfoy Manor

She had learned from her previous mistakes, if nothing else. The first thing she did was close her eyes and picture Draco in her mind, picture him smiling, thinking of the kisses pressed into her hair; and then she waved her wand and cast a Patronus, thinking the words she wanted to say to it as hard as she could, and then let it scamper out of her room to find her parents. Then she cast a Shield Charm around herself, and then she sat on the floor and said softly, "Saidy."

The house-elf appeared at once. "Miss, do you need anything?" Then the wide blue eyes grew wider as she stared around the room.

"I just-" Story swallowed. She was shaking. "I sent a Patronus to my parents room. Just... will you stay with me? Please? And if anyone comes, help me?"

"Of course, Miss," said Saidy, moving closer. "Saidy will stay with Miss as long as Saidy lives."

Story closed her eyes, reassured, and reached forwards to take the tiny hand of the house-elf. Saidy gripped her hand firmly, and though neither of them were old or particularly wise, there was something solid about the presence of a house-elf, something strong and brave and friendly. It was like a warm blanket or a cup of soup.

Footsteps pounded in the hallway, and her door burst open behind her. Her father swore as he bumped into the Shield Charm around Story. "Are you all right?" he said, kneeling.

She let the charm dissipate, and crawled over to her father. He hugged her. Saidy kept one hand on her shoulder.

"My God," said Eugenia, her wand raised, casting light over the awful things in her room. "It's Eogan all over again. Are you hurt?"

"No," said Story. Her teeth were chattering for some reason, and no matter how tightly her father held her she was still cold. "I wasn't in the room. I had a nightmare and then Draco came over and we were sitting on the swing in the gazebo for a while and when I got back this was here and I called you right away."

"Who could have gotten into the house?" said Virgil. "We have every protection spell cast over our house, short of an actual Fidelius Charm."

His voice was so worried, and she ached to tell him who was at fault, but she could do no such thing, because the answer was his son-in-law, and it would break his heart.

"Call the Aurors," said Eugenia decisively. "We have to tell them."

Story nodded numbly.

An hour later, the Aurors were back, and Story tried to avoid the gazes of Potter and Weasley, because they were staring at her suspiciously. But eventually, as her parents were answering questions from sharp-eyed Hermione Granger, Potter came up to her, and said quietly, "If you had given us more information, we could have prevented this."

Story shook her head. "I can't tell you," she said miserably. "If I do, I'll endanger a lot more lives than just my own."

He nodded. "We'll need to move you," he said abruptly. "To a safe house."

"No."

"It's for your own good," he said. "To protect you."

"I'm not the one in danger-"

"The killer, assuming this is the same person who killed Eogan-"

"I'm fairly sure it is, Auror-"

"-did not target your boyfriend. He targeted _you_."

He had a point. Story sighed.

"Please," said a voice at her waist level, "if Miss Astoria is to go anywhere, is Saidy permitted to come with her?"

Potter blinked.

"Please," said Story, clutching at the relief she felt in the idea. "Saidy can protect me. House-elves have better magic than a lot of people realize."

Potter nodded. "I think that will be all right."

Story closed her eyes, reining in all of the emotions, all of the fear that had descended from her mind to lodge in the pit of her stomach. She opened them again, then said brusquely, "Where am I going, then?"

Potter opened his mouth, and then a gloriously familiar voice said, "Malfoy Manor, of course."

Story's knees really did buckle then, and she sat down where she was silently. Saidy was there at once, and then Draco's hands were lifting her up, holding her close.

"What the hell, Malfoy, you're not on shift," snapped Potter.

"I heard the radio call," said Draco, his voice smooth. "I happened to be awake at the time. Would have come sooner, love," he added, murmuring in her ear, "but I got in the shower when I got back and didn't hear it until ten minutes ago."

"You're too closely involved in this case to work on it," said Potter.

"If someone were trying to kill your wife, Potter, would you hesitate to try to track the bastard down?"

Potter sighed. "No, I'd kill him myself."

"Precisely my point. But I am not going to do that, because I value Astoria's opinion on the matter too much to put myself in the line of fire. We've discussed this issue before, you see. But that doesn't mean I'm going to sit back and watch. Astoria comes to Malfoy Manor to stay for an extended period of time. You can't tell me that the protective enchantments on Malfoy Manor aren't more than a match for most people. It's almost as safe a place as Hogwarts or Gringotts."

"Gringotts isn't entirely safe, and neither is Hogwarts-"

"Yes, but as it turns out, the people who break into Gringotts generally turn up dead, or it's you, doing it for a_ good reason_ and right prevails and all that utter shit. Your godfather broke into Hogwarts, but the only malevolent intent he had, as I recall, was to do away with Weasley's pet rat slash escaped Death Eater. I believe since the Battle the protections on the school have rather improved. And anyway," said Draco, a touch of the mocking in his tone, "there are already Aurors stationed at the house anyway, to look over Father, make sure he doesn't do anything more threatening than read a book every now and then. And I can guard Astoria. I can be at her side twenty-four seven if she stays at my house."

"It's not the idea I object to," said Potter, his voice exasperated. "Hardly that. I would go along with it in a heartbeat if it weren't for the fact that this is not merely a stalker with a romantic interest in your girlfriend, it's a pervert who brutally murdered the last person she was known to have been in a relationship with. You could be next, and as much as I dislike you, Malfoy, I don't actually want you dead, and I really don't think that you ought to insist on this when you're as much of a target, and more, than she is."

Draco let out a long sigh. "Potter, if it makes you feel better, you can stand outside the house and keep watch yourself. However, you've got plenty on your plate, and it would be much more convenient for all concerned. And both Astoria and I can take care of ourselves. We'll be much better off protecting each other than we would be on our own." His hand found hers and clenched it in his own. "You did accept me as a part-time Auror, after all. I can't be that helpless. And Astoria might not have had a job with a high requirement of spellwork, but she had damn near perfect test scores in Hogwarts."

"Kind of like your friend Granger," supplied Story, even though she hated the comparison from her schooldays. "I was sort of brilliant."

"That's my girl," said Draco quietly in her ear, and then he turned to Potter. "What do you say? Easier for everyone concerned? I can sign paperwork letting you off the hook if one or the other of us dies."

Potter sighed. "On your own head be it, and Ron or Neville will be along with the paperwork at a reasonable hour. Proof of identity for anyone to leave or enter the house will be required."

"We already have that, but your Aurors can start doing wand checks," said Draco. "And before anyone sees Astoria they'll have to submit to a safety check administered my myself or my mother."

"Your mother?"

"She loves Astoria," said Draco. "She'll do a good job, and send anybody who doesn't pass hexed within an inch of their life to the Auror office."

"I can imagine," said Potter. "Did she ever tell you she saved my life once?"

"What?"

But Potter just grinned. "We'll have people take you there, make sure you aren't attacked. Unless you'd rather Floo back to your home-"

"Safer," agreed Draco. He still held Story's hand, and she was beginning to feel less numb. "Come along, love, and bring your little friend." Saidy trotted after them, towards the fireplace.

"What's happening?" said Eugenia, ignoring Granger's questions.

"We're moving your daughter to a safe location, Mrs. Greengrass," said Potter smoothly. "Mr. Malfoy suggested his own home, and it's the best place. If you would be willing to go through her things and pack what you think will be acceptable, we can get her properly set up there by morning."

"I can do that. Are Virgil and I in danger?" said Eugenia. Her face was stubbornly set. Story had never admired her mother more than she had at that moment.

"No," said Draco. "You're not."

Story glanced up at him, alarmed. He knew about Nott.

"The killer's after Astoria and I. And we can take care of ourselves, plus the enchantments over Malfoy Manor will be hard to beat. And we have my parents and Auror protection already." He still held Story's hand, but with his free one he reached for her mother's hand and bowed elegantly. "I will provide every possible protection for your daughter. She will come to no harm whatsoever under my roof."

Eugenia stared at him for a moment, then at Story. Virgil's face was unreadable. Potter, Weasley, and Granger looked confused, as did most of the other Aurors. But then her mother nodded, and Draco released her hand.

"We'll send a Floo to your parents and wait ten minutes," she said, "and then an Auror can go first, then Draco, then Astoria, then Saidy, then another Auror. If all's well, the Aurors will come back."

"Good plan," said Story softly. Draco's hand tightened around hers.

"Ten minutes? Why would we-" said Potter.

"Because they deserve to have ten minutes warning before they get a guest for Merlin knows how long," said Eugenia. "I'll send the Floo." She bent over the fire, murmuring spells and twirling her wand.

Story was tired. She leaned on Draco. He let go of her hand and put his arm around her waist instead, his fingers curling onto her stomach.

"How are you holding up, love?" he whispered.

"Badly," said Story. "I just want to sleep, but I don't know that I'll be able to. If I hadn't already emptied my stomach before you came earlier, I would be throwing up now."

"Could you sleep if someone were with you?" he said solemnly.

"Maybe."

"I'll ask Mother if she can move a couch into my room," he murmured. "My room isn't as intimidating as a lot of the other rooms in the house."

"Your room?"

"You'll have the bed, I'll take the couch."

She opened her mouth to tell him he could sleep on the bed, too, but closed it when she noticed Weasley staring at them incredulously, and simply sighed into Draco's shoulder.

She listened to the whispered conversation going between Potter, Weasley and Granger as her mother poked her head into the fire to talk to Narcissa Malfoy.

"I'm glad he's doing this, it's much easier on the budget and the force," mumbled Potter

"I'm just wondering how in bloody hell he got a girlfriend to begin with," said Weasley. "Let alone _Astoria Greengrass_..."

"As hard as you may find it to believe, Ronald, Malfoy isn't totally undesirable," said Granger. "I don't much like him, but a lot of other girls find him attractive."

"You better not like him, we're getting married in December," was Weasley's response. Story would have laughed at that on a different day, but she didn't feel like laughing.

Eugenia removed her head from the fire. "She says five minutes will be fine."

"I'll go first," said Weasley, "and then you can go, Malfoy, and then Astoria, and then, er-"

"Saidy," supplied Story tonelessly.

"Yeah, Saidy, and then-"

"Harry," said Granger briskly, "because I still have more questions for Mr. and Mrs. Greengrass."

"Should you be asking me questions?" asked Story.

"At the moment, you may be somewhat emotionally compromised," said Granger. Her voice was kind. "One of us will be around the Manor in the morning for your statement."

Story nodded. She just wanted to go to sleep. She was so tired...

"Story, love, you're very pale," said Draco in her ear. "Do you need to sit down?"

She shook her head. "'M just tired," she mumbled.

"Maybe I had better go through the fireplace with you-"

Story shook her head. "Works better with one."

He didn't look convinced, but let it pass.

Eugenia reached up for the crystalline bowl of Floo powder that always sat on the fireplace. Weasley accepted it from her and threw a pinch in the fire, which flared green. "Malfoy Manor!" he shouted, and then he was gone.

"My turn," said Draco. He swiftly kissed her forehead, released her, and followed after Weasley. Story went to the fireplace and took some powder, tossed it into the flames, stepped in, and said clearly, "Malfoy Manor."

She hated travelling by Floo; it was messy and disorienting and you could turn up in the wrong place if you weren't careful. And she hated the spinning feeling of fireplaces whirling past.

She found herself on the floor of the drawing room at Malfoy Manor, soot on her clothes and in her hair. She hated the smell and she was tired and Nott was out there and he wanted to kill Draco. She began to cry, without making a sound, because Weasley had to be nearby and she would not show weakness in front of him.

Hands pulled her to her feet- long, slender, familiar hands. Draco's hands. For a moment there was indecision, as he tried to support her; then he bent a little and lifted her off the ground entirely, one arm under her back and the other under her knees. Story wasn't going to argue. She leaned into his chest and closed her eyes.

A sputtering sound from the fireplace told her that Saidy had arrived, and shortly after that a quick coughing and soft mumbling signaled Potter's entrance.

"I'll check the hall," said Weasley's voice, "and lead in."

"That won't be necessary," said a familiar voice- Narcissa's voice. "I will know the moment anybody enters who is not welcome here."

"Really? Because the killer's gotten through Intruder Charms before," said Potter dubiously.

"Intruder Charms are for the amateurs," said Narcissa. "I pride myself on using spells a little more out of the common way. And the house itself has ways of letting me know that strangers walk about. I'll add you to the spell right now- if you walk through the halls at this point, you'll find yourselves in the cellar with a roomful of Venomous Tentacula."

"Yikes," mumbled Weasley, as Narcissa's footsteps receded, and then he said presently, "Been a while since we've been here, Harry."

"As I recall," said Draco's voice, both amused and cynical, "you had a panic attack over my aunt's attempts to torture information out of Granger, and you managed to kill Wormtail, steal my wand and my aunt's, and then only a month or so later you broke into Gringotts and stole a dragon."

"Your memory's pretty good," said Potter. "Still using your mother's wand?"

"Yes, Potter, she's never done a spell since," said Draco, his voice dripping sarcasm. Story smiled against his chest. "I got a new one, after Ollivander's opened up again."

"Is she asleep?" Story knew they were talking about her.

"She probably will be pretty soon, if she isn't," said Draco.

"I always thought you were with Parkinson," said Weasley.

"I was, during school," he answered. Story drowsily heard his heartbeat thrumming in the ear pressed against his chest. "But it wasn't ever serious, for me. And she was almost even more of a bully than I was."

"Good Lord, Draco Malfoy admits he's a bully," said Weasley mockingly.

"I know I was a bully," said Draco. "I've tried to repent of that. I know I'm still an arsehole, though, because I still don't like any of you, and I don't really like Muggles either, though I'm able to interact with them when I have to."

"You're not a complete loser," said Potter. "You did help me kill Voldemort, after all."

"It was unintentional, but thanks anyway."

"You're welcome."

"How did you get a model for a girlfriend?" asked Weasley.

"Why, Weasley? Jealous?"

"I have Hermione, so no. I'm just curious why someone as good-looking and smart as her would pick a little prick like you."

"She's always been there," said Draco, "even before I knew it."

Story knew that Potter and Weasley didn't understand, nor should they, but she did, even if she was mostly asleep.

Footsteps approached, and then Narcissa said briskly, "The Aurors can walk through the house now. I have a room set up for-"

"She'll sleep in my room," said Draco.

"And where will you sleep, with the Tentaculas?"

"Move a couch into my room. She'll be safer with someone else in the room."

"It's logical," began Potter, but his voice died away. Story didn't open her eyes but she imagined that Narcissa threw him a withering glance.

"All right, then," said Narcissa. "Come along, then."

He carried her through the halls. She was very nearly asleep when he set her down carefully on a bed, and it only took her a few seconds after that to curl onto her side and fall asleep. The last thing she remembered before oblivion took her was a kiss pressed to her forehead.

She woke to sunlight streaming in through French doors, and for a moment she was wildly disoriented, because her room was not this sunny and her curtains were grey and now they were dark green-

Something touched her shoulder.

She moved without thinking about it, because you couldn't think and react that fast; she rolled away, grabbing her wand as her arm brushed across the endtable, and then she rolled off the bed, losing some of the grace of quick reflexes, and she scrambled to her feet at once, her wand pointing abruptly at whatever had touched her.

Narcissa stood there, her eyes wide and staring, her hands up in a gesture of surrender.

And then Story remembered where she was and what had happened. Slowly, warily, she lowered her wand.

"I'll remember not to touch you to wake you, in the future," said Narcissa, smiling. Story knew she wasn't offended, just surprised.

"I'm sorry," she said. "Just... jumpy, I suppose."

"Nerves will serve you well," said Narcissa. "I would have let you sleep longer, but the Aurors have sent notice that Miss Granger will be arriving at the house in about half an hour."

Story nodded. "Has my mother sent my things?"

"Yes, but the Aurors are going through them cursorily, to make sure the killer didn't leave any unpleasant surprises when he visited your room the other night."

"Right," murmured Story. "I guess it's my pajamas, then."

"Nothing of mine will fit you, or I would offer," said Narcissa.

Story shrugged. "I'd be willing to bet that I can root through Draco's old clothes and find something."

"You're comfortable with that?"

"Yes," said Story. "Should I not be?"

"No," said Narcissa, half-smiling. "But I don't know what idea you want to give people..."

"I'll find something," promised Story, "and I'll be discreet about it. Transfiguration works wonders."

She looked around his room, once Narcissa had gone. It was a large room, bigger than hers. He had clearly already gotten up, though he had probably had less sleep than she had. The French doors led out onto their own balcony; Draco's room, as he had told her once, was on the top floor and centered in the back of the house. Narcissa and Lucius's room was the floor below, and their balcony was bigger. There was a bathroom off to the side, and the closet was large. She began hunting through the closet. She found a white button-down, probably left over from the Hogwarts uniform, and a pair of jeans. She hadn't been aware that Draco ever wore jeans; he usually wore black or grey slacks and a sweater or a button-down under his robes. She knew he wore plaid pajama bottoms and a beater to bed; she had seen him in his pajamas before.

She showered and Transfigured the jeans so that they fit her properly, then dressed and did her hair. Normally she left her hair down completely or pulled back all the way. Today she pulled half of it up and coiled it into a knot on the back of her head, then enchanted it to stay in place. She hadn't brought shoes last night, she realized, just socks, so when she was dressed she slipped downstairs in her sock feet on the marble steps.

She hadn't been in Malfoy Manor much further than the library and the drawing room, so within seconds she was lost. She wandered aimlessly around the house for a while, staring at the paintings of Malfoys past.

"Having fun?"

She turned and smiled at Draco, who stood at the end of the hallway, leaning on the wall. "I got a little lost," she admitted, walking towards him. He straightened and came to her as well, wrapping his arms around her. Story snuggled into him.

"You smell like my soap," he said approvingly.

"I did use your shower."

"I see you're also wearing my clothes," he said. "I like the jeans much better on you."

"I had to fix them a little."

"You did a lovely job." His hands slid from her back to her waist, and then halted just above her hips. "And I like what you've done with your hair. It never ceases to amaze me how beautiful you are."

"What's with all the compliments?" said Story, though she couldn't help but blush at the way his eyes gazed into hers with fearless attraction.

"I've been doing some complicated spellwork on the house," he said, whispering. "I didn't tell Mother. It's going to protect specifically against Nott. I told nobody."

"Thank you."

"And then I was doing paperwork for having you to stay at my humble abode-" Story snorted.

"-and that was especially tedious, so I just appreciate you more than usual at the moment." His hands were still on her hips, and suddenly he pulled her very closely in, more so than usual, and bent to kiss her. She wasn't sure what her hands were doing until they ended up in his hair, and he let out that little groan he usually did when she played with his hair, but this time his hands clenched on her hips, and he murmured against her mouth, "Darling, you simply don't know what you do to me," and his voice was rough and velvety, and then she wasn't really thinking about anything until someone nearby cleared their throat.

She broke away to peer over his shoulder. Narcissa, Hermione Granger, and Neville Longbottom stood there. Longbottom looked revolted and fascinated at the same time, Granger looked annoyed, and Narcissa merely looked amused.

"We need your statement, Miss Greengrass," said Granger.

"Sorry," said Story meekly.

"I'm not," mumbled Draco.

Story reluctantly detached herself from Draco, squeezing his hand as she went, and followed Narcissa and the Aurors downstairs.

Giving the statement was long and arduous, because she had to relive all of her sleepless night. Draco came with them and sat on the couch with her, holding her hand. Eventually, they finished. Draco talked quietly to his mother, and Longbottom sat there awkwardly. But Granger said abruptly, "Can I have a word, Astoria?"

Story shrugged and followed Granger over by the fireplace.

The older girl took a deep breath, then said, "If you need to, you know, get away from here for an afternoon, any time, Ginny Potter and I are both willing to open our homes to you for a little bit."

"Oh," said Story, nonplussed. "Um, thank you."

"And Bill and Fleur Weasley asked me to tell you that they're sending a basket."

"A basket?"

"Sometimes things are horrible, and Fleur is French so she sends presents," said Granger, shrugging. "And I would have just suggested you go to your sister's, but both your boyfriend and his mother insist that they not be told about any of this. Is there any reason for this?"

Story sighed. "Yes," she said, "but it's a secret."

"Well, it's not really a secret that your brother-in-law was in love with you the whole time he was at Hogwarts," said Granger. "That sounded really wrong, but-"

"I know what you meant," said Story, slightly annoyed. "I don't like him, and Daphne doesn't need to be involved in this."

Granger nodded. "I understand," she said kindly, then turned. "Come on, Neville, we're done here."

Longbottom sprang up, relieved, and the two Aurors left by Floo.

Narcissa looked from Draco to Story, then said, "I believe I will spend the time remaining until tea with a good book. Draco, keep Astoria entertained." She smirked at them and left the room.

"Your mother loves me," said Story casually, purposefully not walking over to Draco from where he lounged on the couch. She looked at the porcelain figurines on the mantel of the fireplace, and then at the mirror over it. He was staring at her reflection in the mirror, which made his reflection appear to be staring at her. The grey eyes were soft, and he was breathing slowly as he gazed at her, his chest rising and falling where he lay on the couch.

She swallowed, but looked away. "This is a big room," she observed dispassionately. "So much room."

"Are you attempting to talk about the architecture of my house to get me to get up and stop you?" he demanded.

"No," she said. "I'm trying to see how long I can resist coming over there."

"Well, if I came to you, the answer would be much more impressive."

"You'll be more comfortable on the couch."

"I've got a better idea," he said, springing to his feet. "I'll show you the house, yes? That way, you won't get lost again."

"That is a good idea." She walked towards him, and he clasped her hand and squeezed briefly before pulling her through the house.

Malfoy Manor was a big place. It was also a beautiful one, and there was something old and solemn and mysterious about it that she loved. Summervale Hall had none of the mystery that Malfoy Manor did. He showed her every room, even if they were unused and covered in sheets. There was a room where Narcissa made household potions such as boil cures and invigoration draughts and Veritaserum. "That's not a household potion," observed Story.

"It is here, love," said Draco, kissing her temple.

She loved that he called her "love." It was warm and ticklish, somehow.

He showed her the library again, and the ballroom that was dusty with disuse. She thought about suggesting that they go sock sliding on the floor, but remembered that at the moment she only had the one pair of socks.

And then he led her down into the cellar, past the whitewashed-clean rooms that used to be dungeons, when the Manor was a castle, and even deeper than the former dungeons was a stone hall. Draco lit his wand as he led her down the stairs, and banished the cobwebs with flicks to his right and left.

"This is the crypt," he said quietly. His voice echoed in the stone and dust of the chamber. "All of the Malfoys, since the first Lord Malfoy, whose first name has been lost to time, are buried here."

As they went deeper in, the crypt became longer and darker. Draco whispered and his wand grew brighter, so that she could read the names on the walls.

And then they were at the end, and the last stone plaque read, _Sacred to the memory of Abraxas Malfoy and his beloved wife Iphigenia _and the dates of their lives.

"Grandfather was a martinet," said Draco. "Died of dragon pox."

"That's pretty rare, isn't it?"

"Yeah."

She wandered down to the end. "There isn't room for anybody else."

"We expand it as we need to," he explained. "Someday I'll be buried down here, I guess."

She didn't say what she wanted to say- she had been denying herself that pleasure for years- but she thought of Abraxas and Iphigenia Malfoy, buried together, and then, morbidly, of how someday Lucius and Narcissa would be buried here together, and someday Draco and-

-_and whoever he marries,_ said the nasty little voice in her head. She sighed.

"It's a little creepy down here," he said. "Do you want to go?"

"It's not that bad," she replied. "But it is cold."

She didn't take his hand until they were back in the regular cellars.

"And now, the grand finale," he said, grinning at her and pulling her up the stairs.

"The grand finale? There's a grand finale?"

"There is. And the best part is, my parents don't know about it."

They went into his room and out onto the balcony, and he went to the wall, and tapped a few times on the wall next to the French doors. A ladder appeared there, and he helped her up. At the top, there was a steep little set of stairs built into the roof, and they led to a flat portion of the roof where a blanket and a basket sat waiting.

"You did _not_, Draco Malfoy, plan a _picnic_ on your _roof_."

"I did," he said, with the crooked grin that sent heat searing across her face. "And if we have time, we might eat some of it."

"And what do you mean by that?"

"Oh, you know... we might be talking about anything and everything in the world... we could be kissing... or I suppose we could eat, if we really wanted to."

"Who eats these days, anyway?" mocked Story.

"All the cool kids are making out with each other," he said, in the same mocking voice. "But we're a little classier, I pride myself on that."

"We weren't being that classy when your mother and two Aurors found us kissing in the hall."

"True. Perhaps we should pick up where we left off with that one."

He bent to kiss her. They never did get around to eating any of the food.


	20. Chapter 19: Vindications

Chapter Nineteen: Vindications

The days began to fall into a sort of pattern. Story stayed in Draco's room, and no matter how many times she tried to sleep on the couch, leaving him with the bed, she invariably woke up surrounded by dark-green curtains and the light from the August sun streaming in through the French doors. She would wake up, but never before Draco did, and sometimes he would stay in the room until she woke, sitting on the couch at the foot of the bed and reading or practicing some spell or other. She would shower and get dressed and eat breakfast with Draco and sometimes Narcissa, but never Lucius, because Lucius was a night owl and hated early mornings, and also because Lucius had become rather shy of her. After breakfast she would find something to do away from Draco, whether she was in the library or the drawing room or the little room where Narcissa brewed potions. A few times she went down to the crypt. It didn't scare her; it just made her feel... alone. Some woman, someday, would be buried there with Draco. Not her, because she was damaged goods. She would lie alone and cold in some graveyard or other, no man's beloved wife, because if Draco didn't ask her to marry him, and of course he wouldn't, she would marry no one.

She was allowed to go outside, too, but not beyond the hedge walls, and always with supervision. Sometimes she took Saidy. Saidy loved Malfoy Manor.

Then came lunch, where Lucius would make his first appearance of the day, usually looking grayer and more tired than she had ever seen him look. She remembered the days when he came to the school as a governor, or to Summervale on business, with impeccable fashion, perfect grooming, and the cane, which was not so much a cane as it was an accessory. These days it was actually used as a cane. Lucius Malfoy had been injured during the Battle of Hogwarts- not seriously, but enough that his foot was not quite the same, no matter how many Healing Spells were worked upon it. His hair was still white, but instead of the pure white that Draco still had, there had begun to appear grey streaks, and more often than not Lucius didn't shave, so that he had grey stubble all over his cheeks and chin and above his lip. Story tried to be gentle and kind with him, smiling when she saw him and saying hello, but not pressing him to conversation. Narcissa approved and told her so.

After lunch she spent afternoons with Draco. Tea came around four or five, which Lucius sat in the library and read during and Narcissa insisted that Draco stay with his father for. Tea was for Story and Narcissa to talk quietly about things you couldn't talk to men about. Story appreciated the gesture. After tea she would spend evenings with Draco, and after supper was spent with Draco as well.

But it wasn't tedious; quite the reverse. She loved every minute of it. She wished she could leave the house, but she didn't complain about it; after all, Lucius and Narcissa were only rarely allowed to leave the house under normal circumstances. And she knew Draco, for all the time spent afflicted with wanderlust in Europe, preferred his home to all the castles and ruins he had ever seen.

One morning she went to the library and found Lucius, to her surprise, already awake and reading. Usually she would just nod to him and pass through, but the way he glanced up at her and then back down, his gaze a little defeated, reminded her of the times at Hogwarts when nobody but Nott would sit with her at lunch. She went to the shelves and selected a volume at random, then conjured an armchair next to Lucius's and sat in it tailor-style, opening the book.

She felt him staring at her in bemusement for a little bit, but she ignored him, and eventually he returned to his novel, glancing up at her in confusion every now and then.

They read in silence for several hours. Draco passed through once; when he saw them there he stopped and stared for a whole minute until Story looked up from her book and said, her tone exaggeratedly polite, "Can I help you, Draco?"

"Not at all," he said, beating a quick retreat.

"That's what I thought." She returned to her book.

She had been reading for maybe ten minutes after that when Lucius said softly, "You don't have to bother with me, if you don't want to."

She over at him. He held the book open but he was staring at a bookshelf.

"I'm not bothering with you, am I?"

"Well-"

"I'm reading my book," said Story, "and I'm making sure to spend time with both my boyfriend and your wife. You deserve a little time, too. Do I bother _you_?"

"No. Lord, no," said Lucius, looking horrified. "I didn't mean to-"

"I know what you meant," she assured him. "And I don't see it as bothering. I think my boyfriend's father is someone worth knowing and caring about."

He blinked. "Very few people think that, since..." He swallowed. "... the war."

"They can think whatever the hell they want," said Story. "What I think is a different matter entirely. Your son can tell you that I'm definitely not your typical pureblood girl."

"I already surmised as much," he said. "I've met some of his previous girlfriends. They were always nice, of course, but acting nice and being a decent person, I've come to learn, are two entirely different things. Especially since I used to be like that. Acting nice and being a bad person."

"It's something you learn faster when you're a girl," said Story, remembering the taunts of Scarlett and Pansy with a pang. "And Narcissa told me that when you did those things, you did them because you believed that you were protecting your family, protecting them and providing for them. That's more important to me than anything that anybody else thinks, ever."

"And it doesn't bother you that I am a Death Eater?" he said, almost too softly for her to hear.

"Not in the slightest," said Story, "because who you were is not at all the same as who you are. Your son was an arrogant bully at school. I liked him anyway, but I'm fairly sure I have some masochistic tendencies. And now he is neither arrogant nor a bully. He is confident and assertive in his own rights."

"I used to be a bully, too," said Lucius. "Not just at Hogwarts, either. I bullied people as a school governor, as a prominent member of political society."

"Well, you must have had some redeeming qualities, because you got married and had a child and you're still with your wife," said Story. "Surely that counts for something."

"It counts for them. It doesn't change the fact that I have done awful things in the name of the Dark Lord."

"You might not have been thinking about it at the time, but I know you donated a lot of money to the Ministry, and to St. Mungo's, and to Hogwarts," she pressed. "That counts for something, too."

He shrugged. Story returned to her book, recognizing that the conversation was beginning to die down because of Lucius's newer anxiety problems.

But as the clock struck twelve and they closed their books to go eat lunch, he said, "Thank you."

And Story replied, "You're welcome."

August wore into September, with no sign of Nott. Story hated him for it. She would have hated him more, perhaps, if he had come and hurt Draco or Narcissa or Lucius, or anybody else she had grown to love, but she hated the suspense, the never knowing when or even if he was going to attack.

She woke up one morning near the end of September. It was humid in the house, the moist, hot air invading everything. She showered in cold water, but it didn't help, and neither did drying off afterwards. Not even spells to drive the heat away could keep the humidity from seeping in for long. She ate breakfast, then went back to Draco's room and lay on her stomach, reading. She had been wearing a dress, but it was too warm, so she changed into a tank top and shorts and piled all of her hair up in a ballet bun at the crown of her head.

She had been reading maybe an hour when there was a knock at the door. "Come in."

Draco came in,then stopped where he was at the door. "I can, er, come back."

"I'm not in my underwear, for heaven's sakes," said Story, sitting up.

"True. I was wondering if you would join me for dinner tonight."

"Of course," she said.

"Just the two of us," he added, "up on the roof. If you don't mind."

"Not in the slightest," she assured him. "It's a date."

He grinned.

She smiled back at him.

He turned to go.

"You can stay," she added, closing the book. "I was getting bored of this anyway."

"Really? I- er-" He coughed. "Thank you."

He wasn't wearing robes, for once; it was simply too hot. He had on a button-down and khakis. "You've got to be boiling," she said, as he sat down on the couch. She went over next to him. "It's far too hot outside for sleeves."

"As far as I know, my ancestry is Scandinavian if you go back far enough. I don't mind the heat so badly." He shrugged. "Or the cold. Or really weather at all."

"Lucky you."

"I am lucky," he agreed, looking over at her. "I've got you." He lifted one hand, hesitantly, and put his arm around her shoulder, like a third-year on his first date. His fingers dangled over her bare arm. One of them brushed against her. She shivered.

"I'm the lucky one," said Story, snuggling into him despite the heat. "You actually like me."

"What's not to like?"

"I'm damaged goods," she reminded him.

"One man's trash is another man's treasure," he said. His grey eyes, so ocean-fair usually, were growing a little darker.

And then abruptly he turned and kissed her hard, the hand on her arm pressing against her neck. Story was surprised but she adapted quickly, wrapping her arms around his head. His free hand curled around her waist and pulled her close, chest against chest, stomach against stomach, body against body.

He broke the kiss first, but only to whisper, "You are _not_ damaged goods, my love. Don't even think that for a second. You are beautiful and perfect and I don't deserve you."

"If this were some kind of fairy-tale, I would have waited for you to come along in a stone tower, rather than having a boyfriend for two years and then some and then practically becoming his widow."

"We don't live in a fairy-tale, thank God, because a great many fairy-tales would brand the wizards and witches as the villains." His voice was a little bit hoarse. "We live in the real world, where villains don't always get what they deserve in the end, where heroes die, and princesses cry. It's a good thing we do live in the real world, though, because if we were in a fairy-tale I wouldn't be allowed to kiss you until the happily ever after. Since we aren't in a fairy-tale, however..."

And then he kissed her again, and it was softer this time, softer and sweeter. But then it became rough once more, and soft or rough she wasn't entirely sure that it wasn't a fairy-tale, because this had to be too perfect for reality.

After tea with Narcissa, she went back up to Draco's room and changed into a dress. She remembered the grey one she had worn the first time she had gone to see Narcissa and consequently met Draco, and put that one on. The string of pearls went with it. She let her hair down, because she suspected there would be some kissing, and he liked to put his hands in her hair and she liked it when he did that. High heels, Transfigured to match the dress, and then she was nearly ready. She didn't wear makeup; after stopping her modeling, she had more or less given up on it. She did, however, paint her toenails, because she liked painting her toenails and she had the time. She could hear him in the bathroom getting ready, humming some tune she didn't know. She finished the coat of silver over her right big toe and dried it with a wave of her wand, then slipped her shoes on and sat on the couch to wait.

"No peeking," he said, as his voice emerged from the bathroom door.

"I won't," she promised, but she did turn just in time to catch a glimpse of him shirtless, only wearing a towel around his middle, before he vanished into the closet. He was fair-skinned everywhere, like she was, but she didn't mind. The world thought that tan was beautiful these days, but she loved Draco's pale complexion.

She heard him come out of the closet. "Can I look yet?" she asked him.

"Hold on just a moment- damn tie," he muttered under his breath.

"I can tie a tie."

"So can I, love- I did go to Hogwarts, after all- but this is finer material, and is therefore much more slippery."

"Let me help."

"Thank you."

She got up and turned to him. He was wearing a suit, like Blaise's ex-boyfriend Neil had always worn. The tie was silvery gray, matching her dress.

She went to him and helped him tie it, focusing on the knot.

"You, Story Greengrass, are a vision of grace and beauty," he said, his hands lightly resting on her waist.

"You're extremely debonair in the suit. Westwood?"

"How on earth do you know so much about male fashion?" he demanded.

"I lived in a flat above a gay man and his various boyfriends for two years," said Story. "You pick things up." She finished tying the knot and looked up at him; he was closer than she had thought, because of the heels, and before she could even exhale in surprise he had kissed her forehead.

"Come along, love," he said, taking her hand and leading her to the French doors.

They went outside and climbed up the ladder. Story found that it was not as hard as she had anticipated to climb a ladder in heels. The little steep steps led to the flat rooftop.

Story's mouth fell open in surprise. A circular table was set for two, with elegant ebony chairs set up opposite one another. The table was set with fine china and silver on the bright white tablecloth. In a bucket with melting ice was a bottle of champagne.

"Do you like it?" he asked.

"This is wonderful," she said warmly, kissing him on the cheek. "Thank you."

He pulled her chair out for her, then pushed it in as she sat. He went around to the other chair, removed the suit jacket and hung it over the back of the chair, and sat. He waved his wand over their plates.

"How did you know I love lamb chops?" she asked him.

"I asked your mother," he replied. "Champagne?"

"Thank you."

He popped open the bottle and poured it into her glass, then his. He had prodigious table manners, which Story loved; he had clearly taken the time to learn how to be a gentleman, instead of just acting like one.

"To us," he said, clinking his glass gently against hers.

She smiled. "To us." They drank.

They ate.

"Do you like dogs?" he asked her.

"I have a preference for cats, as a general rule."

"Thank God."

"Dogs aren't stupid, but they are just a little too angelic," said Story reflectively. "Cats are much more human, unless they get caught in the rain, and then they become demonic."

He laughed. "How true." And then his voice grew a little more serious. "How about children? Do you like children?"

She had to think about it. Daphne had sent her an excited letter the other day, because she had learned she was pregnant. And then the next day she had gotten a letter from her mother informing her that Daphne had suddenly miscarried, though there wasn't much of anything baby-like to miscarry at this point. They had gone to St. Mungo's and learned that Daphne couldn't have children.

"I like children," she said softly. "I hope I can have children. Daphne can't."

He was quiet for a moment. "I hope you can have children, too," he said.

The implications of that statement stirred something in her chest which she tried to quell. Thousands of _maybes_ rose in her mind, hopeful, waiting, optimistic. She tried not to think about them.

They finished eating. He leaned back in his chair and smiled at her. "How was the meal?"

"Superb, thank you. All of this is so sweet," she told him, smiling shyly across the table.

"I would have taken you to a restaurant," he said, "but we're rather confined to the house at the moment. I did my best. It's not nearly as good as I could wish for you."

"Don't praise yourself anymore, you get a big head," she deadpanned, and he chuckled, the mocking half-smile appearing on his face. She felt herself blush, as she always did when he smiled at her like that. "It's beautiful, Draco- nobody ever did anything this wonderful for me before."

"They should have," he said, "because you deserve it." His eyes were getting darker again, with love or want she wasn't sure which. She was quite often lost in those eyes, having trouble believing how much he loved her even when it was abundantly clear that he did.

The sun began to set.

Suddenly Draco got his feet and came awkwardly around the table, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out a small black box and knelt in front of her on one knee.

She wasn't sure if she was breathing or not. "Draco..."

"I haven't loved you as long as you've loved me," he said softly. A light wind ruffled his white-blond hair. "But in the time I've loved you and the time I've known you loved me, I've seen how much you love me, how deeply you care for me. I'm honored by that love. I don't half deserve you, your beauty, your wisdom, your sweetness, your perfection. But I hope to honor you the same way you've honored me, and I want to be with you for the rest of my life. Story Christabel Greengrass, will you marry me?"

He opened the box. The ring inside was a silver band with a single diamond set in the center. It sparkled under the orange sunset sky.

This was not her life. This was not real. This was the best fairy-tale she had ever been in. This was everything. "Yes."

Draco grasped her hand and took the ring from the box, then slid it onto her finger. It was a perfect fit. He kissed her hand, and looked up at her.

"Did you write my mother about my ring size, too?" she asked him, because she was trying not to cry with happiness.

He just smiled and pulled her to her feet. "I did." And he bent to kiss her, pulling her close, his arms wrapping around her waist. Her eyes closed, anticipating.

And then some sound hit them, a despairing, desperate cry that was too close to be a hawk or an eagle. She jumped. Draco inhaled sharply at something he couldn't see.

"_You are mine._"

Story turned and gasped.

Theodore Nott stood on the edge of the roof, his face twisted in pain and fury, his wand out and pointed directly at them.


	21. Chapter 20: Heartache

Chapter Twenty: Heartache

He was insane.

She supposed she had always known, but she had passed it off as cleverness combined with his obsession with her. But at some point it had snapped, becoming so much darker than she had ever believed it to be. _Believed_ being the key word, because she had known. It was one of the things that she continually denied to herself.

There was a long silence as they stood there on the roof, the wind whipping around them.

Then Draco said quietly, "She's not yours, Theodore. She's free to do as she wishes."

"I know," said Nott. "But she is still mine. Always mine. Forever mine." The olive-green sought her, found her. There was excitement in those eyes, a greedy, childish excitement.

"You can't decide that for her," said Draco.

"Oh, but I'm not," said Nott. He grinned. "She will choose me, in the end. My Astoria."

That was what broke the horrible stupor. Story whipped out her wand.

"You have no right to come here," she said. "I will never choose you, Nott. Never."

"Daphne's dead."

For a moment she couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't think. Then she snarled, "Prove it."

"I killed her myself," said Nott. He was still smiling. "Useless bitch, if she's not strong enough to bear my children."

"That's not proof. Damn you." Story squeezed her eyes shut and thought of Draco, the last good thing in this world, and sent a silver mouse out and away across the woods of Wiltshire.

"They will be too late," said Nott. "I probably ought not to have let you send that, though. _Expelliar_-"

"_Protego_!" she screamed, flinging her wand arm outwards in a spell that bounced the Disarming Spell almost directly back at him. He dodged it easily, then sent several spells flicking towards her and Draco.

"_Magen_!"

Nott's spells halted where they were, then faded to nothing. Draco's wand was still outstretched. His face was fierce.

Nott's became carefully blank. "Hebrew," he said thoughtfully. "A nice touch. I suppose your wand wasn't up your ass the whole time you were in Europe. God knows it was when we were in school."

"I'm not the one who has to resort to murder to get a girl's attention," shot back Draco.

"Stop it," said Story. "Both of you."

Draco stared at her. Nott took the opportunity to cast another spell, the incantation lost to the wind. Story shot an Impediment Jinx at Nott as both she and Draco dove out of the way in opposite directions. They stood in a triangle on the roof. The most twisted love triangle she knew.

"Look," said Nott, looking at her, and he held up his free hand. She choked at the sight of it, dripping in blood that was not his. "This is your sister's blood- your blood. Blood that will flow in the veins of our children, paired with mine. Blood mixed with blood."

She sat down.

Draco darted forwards to help her but Nott cast a series of spells between them that formed some sort of barrier. Then he walked towards her, his face shining, that horrible bloody hand stretched towards her.

"Come," he said, his face arranged in a beatific smile. "We have waited long enough."

He was going to touch her. If he touched her she would die. She absolutely knew it. And yet she could do nothing, not trapped by a spell as Draco was, but by her own frozen horror that Daphne was- Daphne was-

-_that Daphne was gone_, supplied her mind.

The hand was so close now.

She pointed her wand at herself and whispered, "_Garsenus._"

She fell through the roof and down into the attic of Malfoy Manor. As she hit the floor she regained a tiny bit of control for just a moment, and with that control shoved Daphne to the back of her mind. Draco could take care of himself for a few moments, but Nott would grow impatient with her absence soon. She had to get Draco away, where he would be safe. She had to bring down Nott, by herself. If she didn't, he would hurt other people, people she loved.

She tiptoed quietly around the attic for a few seconds, making herself solid once more so that her feet wouldn't sink through the floorboards. Then she estimated where Draco would be, moved one foot to the left, and jumped back through the roof.

She had guess correctly. Both men jumped, wands facing each other.

"Love, I thought you had died for a moment," murmured Draco.

"Let's not talk about dying, please," she said crisply, and for one moment a thought of a girl with golden-brown hair, in a white gown, laughing in jubilation, filled her eyes. She stomped resolutely on the thought.

"I'll make you a deal," she spat at Nott.

His head cocked sideways. "Interesting. I've always been fond of a gamble. And your wager is?"

"We duel," she said. "Me versus you. Draco doesn't get involved."

"Love-" began Draco.

She stepped on his foot, just hard enough to silence him, her eyes fixed on Nott but not looking at his eyes. "We duel. If I win- well, there won't be a lot of you left, if I win."

She could feel Draco's gentle grip on her arm tighten.

"And if I win?" said Nott eagerly.

She closed her eyes. She had to do it. She would do it, if it came down to it.

"I will go with you."

"No!" shouted Draco, and he spun her around and practically crushed her in his arms. "No! I forbid you. I absolutely forbid you."

"I have to," she told him quietly, so that Nott wouldn't hear. "If I don't go, then all that's left of you and your parents probably won't even be enough to fit in a ceramic jar, let alone a coffin." She tried to smile at him, but failed miserably. "Remember when we went down to see the crypt? I loved it there, even though it was cold. I saw your grandmother was buried with your grandfather, and I looked down two spaces where your name was, and I thought of me being buried with you."

His arms tightened around her. "And you will be," he promised. "There's a ring on your finger that says so."

She glanced down at it, then slid it off and gave it to him. He stared at her.

"Some other woman's dust will mingle with yours, in the years to come," she said softly. "I've got practically no hope against Nott. He's two years older and knows Dark magic."

"So do I," said Draco fiercely. "Let me fight him."

She shook her head. "He won't be aiming to kill, with me," she said. "That gives me an edge."

He released her suddenly. The grey eyes did not cry. They gazed at her steadily. But there was something broken in them, something that she was not sure was not reflected back in her own eyes.

"I love you more than anything else in the world, Story," he said softly, so that Nott would not hear her name. "You are day and night."

"I try," she said. "It's not enough, though. I'll just be this sunset." She gestured out at the sky, which flamed red and orange and golden and pink under the blue-tinged clouds.

He didn't look at it. His eyes were still fixed on her. And then, slowly, a defeated look appeared on his face, and he took one step forwards and kissed her forehead gently.

That was good-bye, she knew, in case she did not survive, or in case she were to go with Nott, when all was said and done.

She turned. Nott was gazing at them, with fury and pain and desire in his face. She raised her wand, waiting.

"Damn you," spat Nott suddenly, and Story saw that he was looking past her at Draco. She turned to see.

He had pushed up the right sleeve, his wand arm, and pressed his wand hard into the black mark that lay there. It burned scarlet.

She turned back to look at Nott. He was rubbing his arm in the same place, but then, without warning, he flicked his wand, and a rope of fire snaked from the end, meaning to wrap around her. She countered it with ice, then sent shards of crystal, like daggers at him. He threw up a Shield Charm. She blasted him with sand and metal, hoping to erode the shield. It didn't work, so she pulled all the sand back into one force, then struck in the very center of the shield. It shattered, and Nott fell, rolling. He nearly rolled off the edge of the roof but stopped just in time, scrambling to his feet and facing her once more, a gleeful smile on his face.

_Furnunculus._ She cast the spell and he blocked it. _Langlock. Densaugeo._ _Incarcerous. Levicorpus. Incendio. Locomotor Wibbly. Petrificus Totalus._

Spell after spell. He blocked them all, laughing.

"_Umiradth_!"

The spell roared past her and hit Nott squarely. He barely blocked it in time, staggering.

"I told you to stay out of it!" she screamed at Draco.

"Like hell I'll stand here and watch him laugh at you!" he shouted, flinging more spells at Nott. "You said yes, love! We do this together or not at all!"

She stared at him for a moment, her wand falling limply to her side. Draco stopped casting spells, too, turning to look at her. And even Nott hesitated, his maniacal laughter fading into the windy rooftop silence.

And like that she realized that he was right. You loved someone, and you let them share your burdens and you shared theirs. She had already been worrying about him, while he's been in Europe, and that burden of his she had been shouldering for a long time. She had wanted to help him since Hogwarts- had been hurting for him, aching for him to be happy, since she was a little girl.

Sometimes being alone was hard, because you had to carry yourself and everyone who came by and added more. Draco had been one of the first people to want to help her lighten her own load. She could not say no to that.

"_Bombarda_!"

Nott's spell blasted them both apart and took a lot of the roof with them.. Draco was flung backwards and slid off the roof.

"_DRACO!_"

The cry that tore from her lips was less than human, but the wind had been knocked from her lungs. She lay lower than she had remembered, gasping for air long after she could breathe, as the roof crumbled into the attics.

And then a shadow loomed over her.

"You're mine," it crooned. Unfamiliar hands crept under her back and scooped her up. Her neck swung back like a rag doll, her wand loose in her hands. "Mine, mine, mine. How pretty you'll be in my house, how pretty our children, how perfect we shall be, how perfect we always have been."

For a moment she gave up.

Then she could see the shadow getting closer to her face, and all she could think was that _he must not kiss her, if he kissed her she would die_-

She clenched her wand and slammed it into his chest so hard that the tip began to splinter. She could see the pale green line of dragon heartstring, beginning to unravel in the soft air.

He gasped for breath, his hand coming up blindly to paw at his chest, dropping her. She rolled away and scrambled to her feet. She could feel blood running down her face. The tip of her wand was bloody, and his shirt was stained with the blood where she had pierced him.

"That's vampires you kill by staking them, Astoria," he said mockingly.

She brought her wand straight up to point at his face before he could speak.

"Drop your wand, you filthy son of a bitch."

Her voice was steady. There was something whole about it, something reassuring. She ought to have been breaking and crying, because Daphne was dead and she didn't know if Draco had fallen to his death or if he was still alive and Nott had almost won for a moment there. But she was steady, and she was calm and cool and there was something in her that had detached the rest of her from what she was about to do.

He stared at her, his face still amused. "Come, Astoria. I've won. Surely you can't still be fighting."

"I will always fight," she said levelly.

"He fell off the roof," said Nott, cracking the insane smile once more. "His bones will rot on the grounds where he played as a child. He will be cold and still, and he will lay there and his parents will mourn him, but not you, because you will grace my bed tonight."

"Not this night, nor any other," she said quietly. "You've never learned how to say no to yourself, Theodore. Self-denial's never been your strong suit."

"And it has been yours?" he sneered.

"I've been in love with one man for ten years," said Story. "And I can assure you that that man was not yourself."

He froze. "Hogwarts..."

"The Yule Ball," she said. "He saved me. You and your empty words, you did nothing. He chose to act."

"But this is a schoolgirl fantasy!" he laughed. "You've learned to give up childish dreams, Astoria. Give them up now. They are a broken body in the gardens where I watched you walk."

"I'm not the one with the schoolgirl fantasy," said Story. "You're the one who kept a picture of me on your bedside table for seven years."

"I must worship at your shrine," he breathed, his eyes growing wider. "Let me take you home, Astoria. You are mine."

He raised his wand.

That detached part of herself uttered two words she thought she would never say in her entire life. It was as though she heard herself say it, with no emotion, not even loudly enough to be heard by someone ten feet away.

"_Avada Kedavra._"

Theodore Nott dropped his wand, his face surprised and still maniacal as he fell backwards and hit the attic floor with a dull noise.

She turned away from the corpse and looked around the wrecked attic, open to the now-night sky. It was shadowy, and the stars were beginning to emerge.

She jumped into the air and grabbed a beam, then pulled herself up onto the roof.

"Draco," someone said. She didn't look around for the voice. It might have been hers. She might have been crying. Or screaming. She didn't know.

He was not on the roof. Most of the roof had fallen into the attic, as it was.

"Astoria!"

She jumped.

People were climbing onto the roof, running towards her. She couldn't see anybody distinctly through the thickness of tears before her eyes. Neither did she want to.

A pounding ache was forming in her gut. Someone seized her around the shoulders, trying to help her, but she pulled from their grasp and knelt, then retched onto the surface before her.

"Oh, God. God. Astoria."

They were all wrong. None of them were calling her by the right name. She couldn't see, couldn't hear. The pain in her gut stayed, even though her stomach was empty. And then it seemed to spread to her chest, and it was like being blasted with that spell again, over and over, the Blasting Curse, because she couldn't breathe with that punch to the lungs, to the left lung, but not quite to the left, more in the center- but still leftward. And somewhere there there was a hole, a deep, raw hole, and she was alone, all alone, just as all had been right it had gone wrong.

She never should have let herself love him in the first place. If she hadn't done that maybe this wouldn't hurt so badly.

His voice echoed in her mind. _We live in the real world, where villains don't always get what they deserve in the end, where heroes die, and princesses cry_.

She knew now why they called it heartache.

"Shhh, shhh, you're all right. You're fine, Astoria. Come on."

She let the gentler of the hands lead her. She didn't think it was her mother, but it was her mother, at the same time. Or at least, there was something motherly about them.

"Draco," she sobbed. "Oh, my God. Draco."

"Where is he? Can you help us find him? We have people looking, but nobody's found him."

"The bastard killed him," she whispered. "Nott. Draco fell."

There was a pause, and then the voice said, "We don't know whether that's confirmed or not, Astoria. Be patient. We will find him, if he fell."

"Oh, God. Oh, my God."

"Shhh."

She had to climb down the ladder by herself. She had forgotten she was wearing a skirt. The heels had been abandoned somewhere in the battle. Her feet were sore and bruised and full of splinters from having a roof crash under her. She was bruised all over. She knew she was bleeding.

And then she was inside, the arms still guiding her.

"Sit here," said the voice.

And then someone else burst into the room. "They found Malfoy!"

"Oh, God," said the first voice, and Story leaped at the second person.

"Tell me! Where is he? Where is he?"

"He's outside, come on!"

She ran down the stairs past them. Someone yelled for her to stop, she'd break her neck on the damned marble stairs, but she didn't care. All she could think of was him.

And then she was outside, and she wiped her eyes to see clearly so she could look, and yes, there was a group of people gathered around something by the bushes.

"Draco!" she screamed.

"Miss, you can't come near, we're doing a medical examination-"

"Get out of my way or I'll hex you!" she shrieked. "That is my fiance and you will let me the hell through!"

They parted. She knelt by his side.

He lay still, unconscious. There were cuts and scrapes on his face. His eyes were closed, his mouth open. There was no sign of breath.

She lifted his head gently and cradled it in her lap. "Draco. My darling. Please, please..." She bent over him and kissed his forehead.

There were embarrassed murmurs around her, of the uncomfortable medics.

"Oh, my God." There was the voice. She recognized it now as Narcissa. And the second person was Lucius, stumbling over after her with his cane.

"My boy, please wake," said Narcissa. She was weeping. "Please."

Lucius said nothing. He just gripped Draco's hand.

Story closed her eyes and breathed slowly. He wasn't moving. Then, ever so gently, she leaned forwards and kissed him on the lips, softer than any time they had ever kissed before. This one was her good-bye now. He had gotten his out to her. She was glad.

But then there was warmth, as she kissed him, and then she knew he was alive, because suddenly hands seized around her face, holding her in place, locking her there.

She opened her eyes and pulled away. His eyes, tired, wary, wanting, found hers. Silver gray ice.

"You are the most wonderful person in the world," he said, and his voice was a tired, coarse cough.

She burst into tears all over again. "Oh, my God. Draco."

"Story, my love, have I mentioned I love it every time you speak? Your voice sounds like someone singing, but without a song to sing," he said. "Like an angel without a chorus."

The aching hole in her heart vanished, like that. She could still feel the seams around the edges, but they would fade a little in time. Never completely, but mostly.

"Did you get him?" he whispered.

"Who?"

"That filthy son-of-a-bitch bastard who wanted to kill me."

"He killed Daphne," said Story quietly, and then that thought, in the back of her mind, returned forwards.

"He could have been lying."

"He wasn't," said Story. "If there's anything he never did, it was break a promise. He didn't attack her until something happened that made him believe she was sort of breaking a promise."

"And that was?"

"Not being able to have children," she said quietly.

He stared at her, then smiled tiredly. "Still, love, you killed him, and now he will never hurt anybody ever again."

She shook her head. "It will still be there, though. He will always have killed Eogan and Daphne."

"'I held it truth, with him who sings to one clear harp in divers tones, that men may rise on stepping-stones of their dead selves to higher things,'"he whispered, his eyes beginning to close.

"Stay with me," she pleaded.

"I will always stay with you. I just have to sleep," he answered.

"What was that thing you said?"

"Tennyson," said Draco. His eyes were fluttering closed. "Smart fellow, Tennyson... funny Squib, like a lot of the poets and musicians. But he could... write..." And then his eyes closed, and he was breathing deeply.

She let the healers take over, healing his injuries. She wandered away, over to the steps.

A limping step joined her, and Lucius settled on the marble next to her with a groan. "I'm rather old to be sitting here," he said.

"You don't need to," she said softly. "I wrecked your house just now."

"The house is replaceable," he replied. "My son is not. May I heal your injuries?"

"If you want to."

He raised his wand and tapped places on her forehead and face and neck, then waved his wand up and down her torso. She could feel bruises fading, cuts sealing, and one strained rib popping into place with a painful jerk.

"Sorry," he apologized. "It's been a long while since this wand healed."

She nodded. They sat there in silence for a moment, and then he said, "I never really wanted a daughter. We Malfoys have borne sons, usually only children, for long ages now. I was an only child. Draco is an only child. Someday he may have a son, or a daughter, or both, or more than that. I don't know. What I do know- what I'm trying to say, I suppose, is that your company has become more than that of a friend. I've seen you with my son. I raised him, Narcissa and I. You may not think that he loves you, but rest assured that he does. I've never seen him so tender with anyone before. And you've become like a daughter to Narcissa and I. So whatever happens..."

"He proposed, before Nott came," said Story, understanding. "I said yes. I still say yes. So you are my fiance's father."

"Good," said Lucius. "It's about time I had a grandson to distract myself with. Or a grandaughter," he added hastily.

"Either is fine by me," said Story. "Daphne couldn't have children, though. What if I can't have children, either?"

"I don't care," he said. "Let it not be said that I'm going to curse you and all of your family if you don't have children. You care about my son, and that is enough."

She sat closer to him and leaned her head on his shoulder. It was something she did with Virgil sometimes, when she was younger. She felt Lucius stiffen, but then he relaxed.

It was over, finally over, the nightmares and pain that had plagued her for sixteen months. She was freer than she had ever been. But it was at the cost of two lives, and she would not forget that.

It was a perfect morning at the end of November. Story had turned twenty-one four days before. She didn't have a party or anything. It was still too soon, too awful, for a party.

They had found Daphne in her home. She had not been brutally killed, as Eogan had, as Draco probably would have been. She lay quietly, as though sleeping, a pale peace to her in death. They had also found Mrs. Nott, also dead. She had been sprawled at the bottom of the stairs, broken but not bleeding.

"She tried to stop him," said Draco. "I guess there's one good thing about her."

"She liked Daphne," said Story. "I can't hate her anymore."

They walked through the graveyard. It was one of many near Oxford, surprisingly sunny for November, with warm sun shining down and a brisk breeze. She wore a long coat over a sweater dress, tights, and boots. Draco wore his usual, all in black and somewhat Victorian. They held hands.

There were three graves, but only two were important. Mrs. Nott had her grave, added underneath that of her husband's. She had been cremated, as had all Death Eater-affiliated persons, to prevent the use of their corpses for Inferi. This had been a newer decree. Draco told her in private that the Malfoys were now exempt from this, and that his parents' house arrest had been lifted, for the most part.

The second grave read _Sacred to the memory of Daphne Octavia Greengrass (Nott), beloved daughter, and sister. 23 April 1980 - 19 September 2003._

Story leaned on Draco. "Do you think that she's happier now?" she asked him.

"Yeah," he said companionably. "Because life sucks, and then you die."

"Don't."

"I'm sorry, that was horrible," he said. "I just- the rat bastard's burnt and buried in there with her. I know he's not marked on the grave, which from your parents is probably the worst insult devisable, but it makes me think they're together, in heaven or wherever it is you go when you die."

Story shook her head. "They aren't together," she said simply. "They don't belong together. I think Daphne is with Eogan."

They looked over at the grave next to Daphne's. _Sacred to the memory of Eogan Conley Southers, friend and son. 14 June 1982 - 21 May 2002._

"I remember thinking something odd, when he was killed," said Story. "I thought that there were three really important men in my life, and that you were like the Three Brothers. And now that Nott is dead, you really are more like the three brothers. Nott was the first brother. He didn't want love, really. He wanted power, over me, over Daph, over anybody he could bully around. Eogan was the second brother. He had his time, and then Death brought him back. He died for love- because of my love and his love. And you're the third brother. You wouldn't do either of what they did. You would have picked the Cloak and we would have hid under it forever, until we were so old that we didn't mind Death taking us, but we would go together, hand in hand."

He was staring at her, and she flushed. "Well, to be fair, I was pretty messed up in the head at the time."

"We should leave the graveyard," he said soberly, "because I know I want to kiss you until we're both dizzy, but it might be considered rather inappropriate for us to start making out over the graves of your sister and former boyfriend. I simply cannot get over the fact that your mind is this brilliant beautiful thing that makes these connections and is unafraid enough of itself to say them out loud. And that brilliant, beautiful brain is encased in a rather stunning vessel."

"And in two weeks you get to keep that vessel and brain for the rest of our natural lives and beyond."

"I, Draco Malfoy, a married man. If you'd told me that five years ago, I would have laughed."

"I, Story Greengrass, a married woman, and married to Draco Malfoy at that. I would have screamed and cried and gone wildly crazy, dancing around Hogwarts with utter joy and abandon."

"And now I'd like to see you do those things, too, but again, we should probably not be in a graveyard for it."

Story smiled at Draco. She pulled her wand from her pocket and conjured two wreaths of flowers. Daphne had laurels, and Eogan had lilies. Then she took Draco's offered arm and they left the graveyard.


	22. Epilogue: King's Cross

Epilogue: King's Cross

She held in her hands the two she loved best.

She had not thought it possible to love anybody as much as she loved Draco, but when she had looked at her normally flat abdomen one day, nervous, and tested herself with a pregnancy spell, she had felt all the love she had ever felt for Draco double, to include this new life inside her. And then Scorpius had been born. They had not given his middle name as Draco, as was usually the case with Malfoys. They had chosen to christen him Scorpius Hyperion because, as Draco had said, he would have to bear the responsibilities of a giant one day.

Scorpius took after his father in many ways; they were mirrors of each other, from the pale hair and skin to the pointed nose and the silver-ice-grey eyes. But he was softer and quieter than Draco. Story loved him with all the love she had for Draco and maybe even a little more than that.

They glanced warily around at the bustling Muggles in London, then slid carefully into Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters.

Draco pushed the trolley carrying Scorpius's trunk and owl. Scorpius clung to her hand. He had Draco's nervous expression on.

"What if none of them like me because I'm a Malfoy?" he whispered to her.

"Then you keep being the brilliant, kind person you are until they do," she whispered back. "You underestimate your power to be charming, darling."

He nodded. "I'll be in Slytherin," he said.

"Probably," agreed Story, "but if you aren't, don't worry about it terribly."

She bent down and looked him in the eyes. "You're ready, dear. You can do this."

He took a deep breath, then nodded.

Draco had loaded Scorpius's trunk and owl onto the train. Now he came back and said something quietly to Scorpius- Story didn't hear what. She glanced around, looking for people she knew, but she didn't find any. Most of them probably wouldn't recognize her anyway, not since she'd stopped being written about in the tabloids.

"You'll be fine, darling," she said to Scorpius one last time, before he got on the train.

"Look," murmured Draco, nodding across the platform.

A multitude of red-haired people, with a few darker-haired people, stood some yards away. There were two dark-haired boys, one the image of Harry Potter and the other a little older, and a tiny girl who was Ginny Potter in miniature. Two more redheaded children stood with Ron and Hermione Weasley. The older one, the girl, had Hermione's bushy mane. Story surveyed them for a moment.

"I believe that the younger boy with dark hair and the older girl with red hair are in your year," said Draco. "Their parents might bear grudges and told them that we weren't worth bothering with. You don't have to talk to them if you're not comfortable."

"Sure," said Scorpius, with a little bit of sarcasm. "Because making friends with the children of war heroes is such a bad thing."

Story wanted to tell him that he was the son of a war hero, Draco Malfoy, but he beat her to it. "Your mother was a war hero," he said. "She saved a lot of lives."

They had told him about Aunt Daphne, but never about Nott. They had mentioned Eogan a few times, too, but not very often.

"I love you," said Story to her son. "Have a good year."

He nodded, and got on the train.

She stood with Draco. His arm wandered around her waist and held her by his side. They watched their son, standing inside the train by the window, looking back at them.

The train pulled away, leaving them in a cloud of steam. They waved until Scorpius couldn't see them anymore.

"He'll be all right, won't he?" said Draco.

Story nodded. "Of course he will."


End file.
